Illllt  M..I.II."MI!ll!l 

rilMlll.lM*.!..*  illllMl.tl.lliyt 

XifiiiiiiiiiiHHiiiiMwuii;:!!!' 


LIBRARY 


UNIVERS 
CALIFORNIA 


OF 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

By  RUDYARD  KIPLING 


Abaft  the  Funnel 


BY 

RUDYARD  KIPLING 


"Men  in  pajamas  sitting  abaft  the  funnel 
and  swapping  lies  of  the  purple  seas" 


NEW  YORK 
B.  W.  DODGE  &  COMPANY 

1909 


Copyright,  1909,  by 
B.  W.  DODGE  &  COMPANY 


fm. 


PREFACE 


HE  measure  of  a  man's  popularity  is 


not  always — or  indeed  seldom — the 


measure  of  his  intrinsic  worth.  So, 


when  the  earlier  work  of  any  writer 
is  gathered  together  in  more  enduring  form, 
catering  to  the  enthusiasm  of  his  readers  in  his 
maturer  years,  there  is  always  a  suspicion  that 
the  venture  is  purely  a  commercial  one,  with- 
out literary  justification. 

Fortunately  these  stories  of  Mr.  Kipling's 
form  their  own  best  excuse  for  this,  their  first 
appearance  together  in  book  form.  Not  mere- 
ly because  in  them  may  be  traced  the  origin  of 
that  style  and  subject  matter  that  later  made 
their  author  famous;  but  because  the  stories  are 
in  themselves  worth  while — worth  writing, 
worth  reading.  "The  Likes  o'  Us"  is  as  true 
to  the  type  as  any  of  the  immortal  Mulvaney 
stories;  the  beginning  of  "New  Brooms"  is  as 


PREFACE 

succinctly  fine  as  any  prose  Mr.  Kipling  ever 
wrote;  for  searching  out  and  presenting  such 
splendid  pieces  of  fiction  as  "Sleipner,  late 
Thurinda,"  and  "A  Little  More  Beef"  to  a 
public  larger  than  their  original  one  in  India, 
no  apology  is  necessary. 

A.  F. 


[vi] 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Erastasius  of  the  Whanghoa   I 

Her  Little  Responsibility   12 

A  Menagerie  Aboard   20 

A  Smoke  of  Manila   26 

The  Red  Lamp   33 

The  Shadow  of  His  Hand   41 

A  Little  More  Beef   49 

The  History  of  a  Fall   58 

Griffiths  the  Safe  Man   66 

It   77 

The  Fallen  Idol   85 

New  Brooms   91 

Tiglath  Pileser   99 

The  Like  0'  Us   109 

His  Brother's  Keeper   121 

"Sleipner,"  Late  "Thurinda"   141 

A  Supplementary  Chapter   161 

Chautauquaed   180 

The  Bow  Flume  Cable  Car   204 

In  Partibus   213 

Letters  on  Leave   218 

[vii] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Adoration  of  the  Mage   251 

A  Death  in  the  Camp   258 

A  Really  Good  Time   265 

On  Exhibition   273 

The  Three  Young  Men   283 

My  Great  and  Only   292 

The  Betrayal  of  Confidences   305 

The  New  Dispensation — 1   313 

The  New  Dispensation — II   322 

The  Last  of  the  Stories   331 


[viii] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


ERASTASIUS  OF  THE  WHANGHOA* 

"fT^HE  old  cat's  tumbled  down  the 
ventilator,    sir,  and  he's  swear- 
■**      ing   away   under   the  furnace- 
door  in  the  stoke-hole,"  said  the 
second  officer  to  the  Captain  of  the  Whanghoa. 

"Now  what  in  thunder  was  Erastasius  doing 
at  the  mouth  of  the  ventilator?  It's  four  feet 
from  the  ground  and  painted  red  at  that.  Any 
of  the  children  been  amusing  themselves  with 
him,  d'you  think?  I  wouldn't  have  Erastasius 
disturbed  in  his  inside  for  all  the  gold  in  the 
treasury,"  said  the  Captain.  "Tell  some  one 
to  bring  him  up,  and  handle  him  delicately,  for 
he's  not  a  quiet  beast." 

In  three  minutes  a  bucket  appeared  on  deck. 


♦"Turnovers,"  Vol.  VII. 

[i] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

It  was  covered  with  a  wooden  lid.  "Think  he 
have  make  die  this  time,"  said  the  Chinese 
sailor  who  carried  the  coffin,  with  a  grin. 
"Catchee  him  topside  coals — no  open  eye — no 
spit — no  sclatchee  my.  Have  got  bucket,  allee 
same,  and  make  tight.  See!" 

He  dived  his  bare  arm  under  the  lid,  but 
withdrew  it  with  a  yell,  dropping  the  bucket 
at  the  same  time.  "Hya!  Can  do.  Maskee 
dlop  down — masky  spilum  coal.  Have  catchee 
my  light  there." 

Blood  was  trickling  from  his  elbow.  He 
moved  aft,  while  the  bucket,  mysteriously 
worked  by  hidden  force,  trundled  to  and  fro 
across  the  decks,  swearing  aloud. 

Emerged  finally  Erastasius,  tom-cat  and 
grandfather-in-chief  of  the  Whanghoa — 
a  gaunt  brindled  beast,  lacking  one  ear,  with 
every  hair  on  his  body  armed  and  erect.  He 
was  patched  with  coal-dust,  very  stiff  and  sore 
all  over,  and  very  anxious  to  take  the  world  into 
his  confidence  as  to  his  wrongs.  For  this  rea- 
son he  did  not  run  when  he  was  clear  of  the 
bucket,  but  sitting  on  his  hunkers  regarded 
[2] 


ERASTASIUS  OF  THE  WHANGHOA 


the  Captain,  as  who  would  say:  "You  hold  a 
master's  certificate  and  call  yourself  a  seaman, 
and  yet  you  allow  this  sort  of  thing  on  your 
boat." 

"Guess  I  must  apologise,  old  man,"  said  the 
Captain  gravely.  "Those  ventilators  are  a 
little  too  broad  in  the  beam  for  a  passenger  of 
your  build.  What  made  you  walk  down  it? 
Not  a  rat,  eh?  You're  too  well  fed  to  trouble 
of  rats.   Drink  was  it." 

Erastasius  turned  his  back  on  the  Captain. 
He  was  a  tailless  Japanese  cat,  and  the  abrupt- 
ness of  his  termination  gave  him  a  specially 
brusque  appearance. 

"Shouldn't  wonder  if  the  old  man  hasn't 
been  stealing  something  and  was  getting  away 
from  the  galley.  He's  the  biggest  reprobate 
that  ever  shipped — and  that's  saying  some- 
thing. No,  he  isn't  my  property  exactly.  I've 
got  a  notion  that  he  owns  the  ship.  Gathered 
that  from  the  way  he  goes  round  after  six  bells 
to  see  the  lights  out.  The  chief  engineer  says 
he  built  the  engines.  Anyway,  the  old  man 
sits  in  the  engine-room  and  sort  of  keeps  an 
[3] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

eye  on  the  boilers.  He  was  on  the  ship  before 
I  joined  her — that's  seven  years  ago,  when  we 
were  running  up  and  down  and  around  and 
about  the  China  Seas." 

Erastasius,  his  back  to  the  company,  was 
busied  in  cleaning  his  disarranged  fur.  He 
licked  and  swore  alternately.  The  ventilator 
incident  had  hurt  his  feelings  sorely. 

"He  knows  we  are  talking  about  him,"  con- 
tinued the  Captain.  "He's  a  responsible  kind 
o'  critter.  That's  natural  when  you  come  to 
think  that  he  has  saved  a  quarter  of  a  million 
of  dollars.  At  present  his  wants  are  few — 
guess  he  would  like  a  netting  over  those  venti- 
lators first  thing — but  some  day  he'll  begin  to 
live  up  to  his  capital," 

"Saved  a  quarter  of  a  million  dollars !  What 
securities  did  he  invest  'em  in?"  said  a  man 
from  Foochow. 

"Here,  in  this  bottom.  He  saved  the 
Whanghoa  with  a  full  cargo  of  tea,  silk  and 
opium,  and  thirteen  thousand  dollars  in  bar 
silver.  Yes;  that's  about  the  extent  of  the  old 
man's  savings.   I  commanded.   The  old  man 

[4] 


ERASTASIUS  OF  THE  WHANGHOA 


was  the  rescuer,  and  I  was  more  grateful  to 
him  'cause  it  was  my  darned  folly  that  nearly 
brought  us  into  the  trouble.  I  was  new  to  these 
waters,  new  to  the  Chinaman  and  his  fasci- 
nating little  ways,  being  a  New  England  man 
by  raising.  Erastasius  was  raised  by  the 
Devil.  That's  who  his  sire  was.  Never  ran 
across  his  dam.  Ran  across  a  forsaken  sea, 
though,  in  the  Whanghoa,  a  little  to  the  north- 
east of  this,  with  eight  hundred  steerage  pas- 
sengers, all  Chinamen,  for  various  and  unde- 
nominated  ports.  Had  the  pleasure  of  sending 
eighteen  of  'em  into  the  water.  Yes,  that's  so, 
isn't  it,  old  man?" 

Erastasius  finished  licking  himself  and 
mewed  affirmatively. 

"Yes,  we  carried  four  white  officers — a 
Westerner,  two  Vermont  men,  and  myself. 
There  were  ten  Americans,  a  couple  of  Danes 
and  a  half-caste  knocking  round  the  ship,  and 
the  crew  were  Chinese,  but  most  of  'em  good 
Chinese.  Only  good  Chinese  I  ever  met.  We 
had  our  steerage  passengers  'tween-decks. 
Most  of  'em  lay  around  and  played  dominoes 

[5] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

or  smoked  opium.  We  had  bad  weather  at 
the  start,  and  the  steerage  were  powerful  sick. 
I  judged  they  would  have  no  insides  to  them 
when  the  weather  lifted,  so  I  didn't  put  any 
guards  on  them.  Wanted  all  my  men  to  work 
the  ship.  Engines  rotten  as  Congress,  and 
under  sail  half  the  time.  Next  time  I  carry 
Chinese  steerage  trash  I'll  hire  a  Gatling  and 
mount  it  on  the  'tween-decks  hatch. 

"We  were  fooling  about  between  islands — 
about  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  islands  all 
wrapped  up  in  fog.  When  the  fog  laid  the 
wind,  the  engines  broke  down.  One  of  the 
passengers — we  carried  no  ladies  that  journey 
— came  to  me  one  evening.  'I  calculate  there's 
a  conspiracy  'tween-decks,'  he  said.  'Those 
pigtails  are  talking  together.  No  good  ever 
came  of  pigtails  talking.  I'm  from  'Frisco. 
I  authoritate  on  these  matters.'  'Not  on  this 
ship,'  I  said:  'I've  no  use  for  duplicate  au- 
thority.' 'You'll  be  homesick  after  nine  this 
time  to-morrow,'  he  said  and  quit.  I  guess  he 
told  the  other  passengers  his  notions. 

"Erastasius  shared  my  cabin  in  general.  I 
[6] 


ERASTASIUS  OF  THE  WHANGHOA 


didn't  care  to  dispute  with  a  cat  that  went 
heeled  the  way  he  did.  That  particular  night 
when  I  came  down  he  was  not  inclined  for 
repose.  When  I  shut  the  door  he  scrabbled 
till  I  let  him  out.  When  he  was  out  he  scrab- 
bled to  come  back.  When  he  was  back,  he 
jumped  all  round  the  shanty  yowling.  I 
stroked  him,  and  the  sparks  irrigated  his  back 
as  if  'twas  the  smoke-stack  of  a  river  steamer. 
'I'll  get  you  a  wife,  old  man,'  I  said,  'next 
voyage.  It  is  no  good  for  you  to  be  alone  with 
me.'  'Whoopee,  yoopee-yaw-aw-aw/  said 
Erastasius.  'Let  me  get  out  of  this.'  I  looked 
him  square  between  the  eyes  to  fix  the  place 
where  I'd  come  down  with  a  boot-heel  (he  was 
getting  monotonous),  and  as  I  looked  I  saw 
the  animal  was  just  possessed  with  deadly  fear 
— human  fear — crawling,  shaking  fear.  It 
crept  out  of  the  green  of  his  eyes  and  crept 
over  me  in  billowing  waves — each  wave  colder 
than  the  last.  'Unburden  your  mind,  Erastas- 
ius,' I  said.  'What's  going  to  happen?' 
'Wheepee-yeepee-ya-ya-ya-woopl'  said  Eras- 
tasius, backing  to  the  door  and  scratching. 
[7] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

"I  quit  my  cabin  sweating  big  drops,  and 
somehow  my  hand  shut  on  my  six-shooter.  The 
grip  of  the  handle  soothes  a  man  when  he  is 
afraid.  I  heard  the  whole  ship  'tween-decks 
rustling  under  me  like  all  the  woods  of  Maine 
when  the  wind's  up.  The  lamp  over  the 
'tween-decks  was  out.  The  steerage  watch- 
man was  lying  on  the  ground,  and  the  whole 
hive  of  Celestials  were  on  the  tramp — soft- 
footed  hounds.  A  lantern  came  down  the  alley- 
way. Behind  it  was  the  passenger  that  had 
spoken  to  me,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  crowd, 
except  the  half-caste. 

"  'Are  you  homesick  any  now?'  said  my  pas- 
senger. The  'tween-decks  woke  up  with  a  yell 
at  the  light,  and  some  one  fired  up  the  hatch- 
way. Then  we  began  our  share  of  the  fun — 
the  ten  passengers  and  I.  Eleven  six-shooters. 
That  cleared  the  first  rush  of  the  pigtails,  but 
we  continued  firing  on  principle,  working  our 
way  down  the  steps.  No  one  came  down  from 
the  spar-deck  to  assist,  though  I  heard  con- 
siderable of  a  trampling.  The  pigtails  below 
[8] 


ERASTASIUS  OF  THE  WHANGHOA 


were  growling  like  cats.  I  heard  the  look- 
out man  shout,  'Junk  on  the  port  bow,'  and  the 
bell  ring  in  the  engine-room  for  full  speed 
ahead.  Then  we  struck  something,  and  there 
was  a  yell  inside  and  outside  the  ship  that 
would  have  lifted  your  hair  out.  When  the 
outside  yell  stopped,  our  pigtails  were  on  their 
faces.  'Run  down  a  junk,'  said  my  passenger 
— ' their  junk.'  He  loosed  three  shots  into  the 
steerage  on  the  strength  of  it.  I  went  up  on 
deck  when  things  were  quiet  below.  Some  one 
had  run  our  Dahlgren  signal-gun  forward  and 
pointed  it  to  the  break  of  the  fo'c'sle.  There 
was  the  balance  of  a  war  junk — three  spars 
and  a  head  or  two  on  the  water,  and  the  first 
mate  keeping  his  watch  in  regular  style. 

"  'What  is  your  share  ?'  he  said.  'We've 
smashed  up  a  junk  that  tried  to  foul  us.  Seems 
to  have  affected  the  feelings  of  your  friends 
below.  Guess  they  wanted  to  make  connec- 
tion.' 'It  is  made,'  said  I,  'on  the  Glassy  Sea. 
Where's  the  watch?'  'In  the  fo'c'sle.  The  half- 
caste  is  sitting  on  the  signal-gun  smoking  his 
[9] 


ABAFT  THE  FUXXEL 

cigar.  The  watch  are  speculatin'  whether  he'll 
stick  the  business-end  of  it  in  the  touch-hole  or 
continue  smoking.  I  gather  that  gun  is  not 
empty.'  'Send  'em  down  below  to  wash  decks. 
Tell  the  quartermaster  to  go  through  their 
boxes  while  they  are  away.  They  may  have 
implements.' 

"The  watch  went  below  to  clean  things  up. 
There  were  eighteen  stiff  uns  and  fourteen  with 
holes  through  their  systems.  Some  died,  some 
survived.  I  did  not  keep  particular  count. 
The  balance  I  roped  up,  and  it  employed  most 
of  our  spare  rigging.  When  we  touched  port 
there  was  a  picnic  among  the  hangmen.  Seems 
that  Erastasius  had  been  yowling  down  the 
cabins  all  night  before  he  came  to  me,  and  kept 
the  passengers  alive.  The  man  that  spoke  to 
me  said  the  old  man's  eyes  were  awful  to  look 
at.  He  was  dying  to  tell  his  fear,  but  couldn't. 
When  the  passengers  came  forward  with  the 
light,  the  half-caste  quit  for  topside  and  got 
the  quartermaster  to  load  the  signal-gun  with 
handspikes  and  bring  it  forward  in  case  the 
[10] 


ERASTASIUS  OF  THE  WHANGHOA 

fo'c'sle  wished  to  assist  in  the  row.  That  was 
the  best  half-caste  I  ever  met.  But  the  fo'c'sle 
didn't  assist.  They  were  sick.  So  were  the 
men  below — horror-sick.  That  was  the  way  the 
old  man  saved  the  Whanghoa" 


C"3 


HER  LITTLE  RESPONSIBILITY* 


And  No  Man  May  Answer  for  the  Soul  of  His  Brother 

IT  was  two  in  the  morning,  and  Epstin's 
Dive  was  almost  empty,  when  a  Thing 
staggered  down  the  steps  that  led  to  that 
horrible  place  and  fawned  on  me  dis- 
gustingly for  the  price  of  a  drink.  "I'm  dying 
of  thirst,"  he  said,  but  his  tone  was  not  that  of 
a  street  loafer.  There  is  a  freemasonry,  the 
freemasonry  of  the  public  schools,  stronger 
than  any  that  the  Craft  knows.  The  Thing 
drank  whisky  raw,  which  in  itself  is  not  calcu- 
lated to  slake  thirst,  and  I  waited  at  its  side 
because  I  knew,  by  virtue  of  the  one  sentence 
above  recorded,  that  it  once  belonged  to  my 
caste.  Indeed,  so  small  is  the  world  when  one 
begins  to  travel  round  it,  that,  for  aught  I 


•"Turnovers,"  Vol.  VII. 

[12] 


HER  LITTLE  RESPONSIBILITY 


knew,  I  might  even  have  met  the  Thing  in  that 
menagerie  of  carefully-trained  wild  beasts, 
Decent  Society.  And  the  Thing  drank  more 
whisky  ere  the  flood-gates  of  its  speech  were 
loosed  and  spoke  of  the  wonderful  story  of  its 
fall. 

Never  man,  he  said,  had  suffered  more  than 
he,  or  for  slighter  sin.  Whereat  I  winked  beer- 
ily  into  the  bottom  of  my  empty  glass,  having 
heard  that  tale  before.  I  think  the  Thing  had 
been  long  divided  from  all  social  and  moral 
restraint — even  longer  from  the  wholesome  in- 
fluence of  soap  and  water. 

"What  I  feel  most  down  here,"  said  It,  and 
by  "down  here"  I  presume  he  meant  the  Inferno 
of  his  own  wretchedness,  "is  the  difficulty  about 
getting  a  bath.  A  man  can  always  catch  a 
free  lunch  at  any  of  the  bars  in  the  city,  if  he 
has  money  enough  to  buy  a  drink  with,  and  you 
can  sleep  out  for  six  or  eight  months  of  the 
year  without  harm,  but  San  Francisco  doesn't 
run  to  free  baths.  It's  not  an  amusing  life 
any  way  you  look  at  it.  I'm  more  or  less  used 
to  things,  but  it  hurts  me  even  now  to  meet 
[13] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

a  decent  man  who  knows  something  of  life  in 
the  old  country.  I  was  raised  at  Harrow — 
Harrow,  if  you  please — and  I'm  not  five-and- 
twenty  yet,  and  I  haven't  got  a  penny,  and  I 
haven't  .got  a  friend,  and  there  is  nothing  in 
creation  that  I  can  command  except  a  drink, 
and  I  have  to  beg  for  that.  Have  you  ever 
begged  for  a  drink?  It  hurts  at  first,  but  you 
get  used  to  it.  My  father's  a  parson.  I  don't 
think  he  knows  I  beg  drink.  He  lives  near 
Salisbury.  Do  you  know  Salisbury  at  all? 
And  then  there's  my  mother,  too.  But  I  have 
not  heard  from  either*  of  them  for  a  couple  of 
years.  They  think  I'm  in  a  real  estate  office 
in  Washington  Territory,  coining  money  hand 
over  fist.  If  ever  you  run  across  them — I  sup- 
pose you  will  some  day — there's  the  address. 
Tell  them  that  you've  seen  me,  and  that  I  am 
well  and  fit.  Understand? — well  and  fit.  I 
guess  I'll  be  dead  by  the  time  you  see  'em. 
That's  hard.  Men  oughtn't  to  die  at  five-and- 
twenty — of  drink.  Say,  were  you  ever  mashed 
on  a  girl?  Not  one  of  these  you  see,  girls  out 
here,  but  an  English  one — the  sort  of  girl 
[14] 


HER  LITTLE  RESPONSIBILITY 

one  meets  at  the  Vicarage  tennis-party,  don't 
you  know.  A  girl  of  our  own  set.  I  don't 
mean  mashed  exactly,  but  dead,  clean  gone, 
head  over  ears ;  and  worse  than  that  I  was  once, 
and  I  fancy  I  took  the  thing  pretty  much  as  I 
take  liquor  now.  I  didn't  know  when  to  stop. 
It  didn't  seem  to  me  that  there  was  any  reason 
for  stopping  in  affairs  of  that  kind.  I'm  quite 
sure  there's  no  reason  for  stopping  half-way 
with  liquor.  Go  the  whole  hog  and  die.  It's 
all  right,  though — I'm  not  going  to  get  drunk 
here.  Five  in  the  morning  will  suit  me  just  as 
well,  and  I  haven't  the  chance  of  talking  to 
one  of  you  fellows  often.  So  you  cut  about  in 
fine  clothes,  do  you,  and  take  your  drinks  at 
the  best  bars  and  put  up  at  the  Palace?  All 
Englishmen  do.  W ell,  here's  luck ;  you  may  be 
what  I  am  one  of  these  days.  You'll  find  com- 
panions quite  as  well  raised  as  yourself. 

^  ^ 

"But  about  this  girl.   Don't  do  what  I  did. 
I  fell  in  love  with  her.    She  lived  near  us  in 
Salisbury;  that  was  when  I  had  a  clean  shirt 
every  day  and  hired  horses  to  ride.    One  of 
[15] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

the  guineas  I  spent  on  that  amusement  would 
keep  me  for  a  week  here.  But  about  this  girl. 
I  don't  think  some  men  ought  to  be  allowed 
to  fall  in  love  any  more  than  they  ought  to  be 
allowed  to  taste  whisky.  She  said  she  cared  for 
me.  Used  to  say  that  about  a  thousand  times 
a  day,  with  a  kiss  in  between.  I  think  about 
those  things  now,  and  they  make  me  nearly  as 
drunk  as  the  whisky  does.  Do  you  know  any- 
thing about  that  love-making  business  ?  I  stole 
a  copy  of  Cleopatra  off  a.  bookstall  in  Kearney 
Street,  and  that  priest-chap  says  a  very  true 
thing  about  it.  You  can't  stop  when  it's  once 
started,  and  when  it's  all  over  you  can't  give 
it  up  at  the  word  of  command.  I  forget  the 
precise  language.  That  girl  cared  for  me. 
I'd  give  something  if  she  could  see  me  now. 
She  doesn't  like  men  without  collars  and  odd 
boots  and  somebody  else's  hat ;  but  anyhow  she 
made  me  what  I  am,  and  some  day  she'll  know 
it.  I  came  out  here  two  years  ago  to  a  real 
estate  office;  my  father  bought  me  some  sort 
of  a  place  in  the  firm.  We  were  all  English- 
men, but  we  were  about  a  match  for  an  average 
[16] 


HER  LITTLE  RESPONSIBILITY 

Yankee ;  but  I  forgot  to  tell  you  I  was  engaged 
to  the  girl  before  I  came  out.  Never  you  make 
a  woman  swear  oaths  of  eternal  constancy. 
She'll  break  every  one  of  them  as  soon  as  her 
mind  changes,  and  call  you  unjust  for  making 
her  swear  them.  I  worked  enough  for  five 
men  in  my  first  year.  I  got  a  little  house  and 
lot  in  Tacoma  fit  for  any  woman.  I  never 
drank,  I  hardly  ever  smoked,  I  sold  real  estate 
all  day,  and  wrote  letters  at  night.  She  wrote 
letters,  too,  about  as  full  of  affection  as  they 
make  'em.  You  can  tell  nothing  from  a  wom- 
an's letter,  though.  If  they  want  to  hide  any- 
thing, they  just  double  the  'dears'  and  'dar- 
lings,' and  then  giggle  when  the  man  fancies 
himself  deceived. 

"I  don't  suppose  I  was  worse  off  than  hun- 
dreds of  others,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  she 
might  have  had  the  grace  to  let  me  down  easily. 
She  went  and  got  married.  I  don't  suppose  she 
knew  exactly  what  she  was  doing,  because  I 
got  the  letters  just  the  same  six  weeks  after  she 
was  married !  It  was  an  odd  copy  of  an  Eng- 
lish paper  that  showed  me  what  had  happened. 
[17] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

It  came  in  on  the  same  day  as  one  of  her  let- 
ters, telling  me  she  would  be  true  to  the  gates 
of  death.  Sounds  like  a  novel,  doesn't  it?  But 
it  did  not  amuse  me  in  the  least.  I  wasn't  con- 
structed to  pitch  the  letters  into  the  fire  and 
pick  up  with  a  Yankee  girl.  I  wrote  her  a 
letter;  I  rather  wish  I  could  remember  what 
was  in  that  letter.  Then  I  went  to  a  bar  in 
Tacoma  and  had  some  whisky,  about  a  gallon, 
I  suppose.  If  I  had  anything  approaching  to 
a  word  of  honour  about  me,  I  would  give  it 
you  that  I  did  not  know  what  happened  until 
I  was  told  that  my  partnership  with  the  firm 
had  been  dissolved,  and  that  the  house  and  lot 
did  not  belong  to  me  any  more.  I  would  have 
left  the  firm  and  sold  the  house,  anyhow,  but 
the  crash  sobered  me  for  about  three  days. 
Then  I  started  another  jamboree.  I  might 
have  got  back  after  the  first  one,  and  been  a 
prominent  citizen,  but  the  second  bust  settled 
matters.  Then  I  began  to  slide  on  the  down- 
grade straight  off,  and  here  I  am  now.  I  could 
write  you  a  book  about  what  I  have  come 
through,  if  I  could  remember  it.  The  worst 
[18] 


HER  LITTLE  RESPONSIBILITY 

of  it  is  I  can  see  that  she  wasn't  worth  losing 
anything  in  life  for,  but  I've  lost  just  every- 
thing, and  I'm  like  the  priest-chap  in  Cleo- 
patra— I  can't  get  over  what  I  remember.  If 
she  had  let  me  down  easy,  and  given  me  warn- 
ing, I  should  have  been  awfully  cut  up  for  a 
time,  but  I  should  have  pulled  through.  She 
didn't  do  that,  though.  She  lied  to  me  all 
along,  and  married  a  curate,  and  I  dare  say 
she'll  be  a  virtuous  she-vicar  later  on;  but  the 
little  affair  broke  me  dead,  and  if  I  had  more 
whisky  in  me  I  should  be  blubbering  like  a  calf 
all  round  this  Dive.  That  would  have  dis- 
gusted you,  wouldn't  it?" 
"Yes,"  said  I. 


[19  J 


A  MENAGERIE  ABOARD* 


IT  was  pyjama  time  on  the  Madura  in  the 
Bay  of  Bengal,  and  the  incense  of  the 
very  early  morning  cigar  went  up  to  the 
stainless  skies.  Every  one  knows  py- 
jama time — the  long  hour  that  follows  the 
removal  of  the  beds  from  the  saloon  skylight 
and  the  consumption  of  chota  hazri.  Most  men 
know,  too,  that  the  choicest  stories  of  many 
seas  may  be  picked  up  then — from  the  long- 
winded  histories  of  the  Colonial  sheep-master 
to  the  crisp  anecdotes  of  the  Calif ornian ;  from 
tales  of  battle,  murder  and  sudden  death  told 
by  the  Burmah-returned  subaltern,  to  the  bland 
drivel  of  the  globe-trotter.  The  Captain,  taste- 
fully attired  in  pale  pink,  sat  up  on  the  signal- 
gun  and  tossed  the  husk  of  a  banana  overboard. 
"It  looked  in  through  my  cabin-window," 

•Vol.  V.,  Jan.— March,  1889. 

[20] 


A  MENAGERIE  ABOARD 

said  he,  "and  scared  me  nearly  into  a  fit."  We 
had  just  been  talking  about  a  monkey  who  ap- 
peared to  a  man  in  an  omnibus,  and  haunted 
him  till  he  cut  his  own  throat.  The  apparition, 
amid  howls  of  incredulity,  was  said  to  have  been 
the  result  of  excessive  tea-drinking.  The  Cap- 
tain's apparition  promised  to  be  better. 

"It  was  a  menagerie — a  whole  turnout,  lock, 
stock,  and  barrel,  from  the  big  bear  to  the 
little  hippopotamus;  and  you  can  guess  the 
size  of  it  from  the  fact  that  they  paid  us  a 
thousand  pounds  in  freight  only.  We  got 
them  all  accommodated  somewhere  forward 
among  the  deck  passengers,  and  they  whooped 
up  terribly  all  along  the  ship  for  two  or  three 
days.  Among  other  things,  such  as  panthers 
and  leopards,  there  were  sixteen  giraffes,  and 
we  moored  'em  fore  and  aft  as  securely  as 
might  be ;  but  you  can't  get  a  purchase  on  a  gi- 
raffe somehow.  He  slopes  back  too  much  from 
the  bows  to  the  stern.  We  were  running  up  the 
Red  Sea,  I  think,  and  the  menagerie  fairly 
quiet.  One  night  I  went  to  my  cabin  not  feel- 
ing well.  About  midnight  I  was  waked  by 
[21] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

something  breathing  on  my  face.  I  was  quite 
calm  and  collected,  for  I  had  got  it  into  my 
head  that  it  was  one  of  the  panthers,  or  at  least 
the  bear;  and  I  reached  back  to  the  rack  behind 
me  for  a  revolver.  Then  the  head  began  to 
slide  against  my  cabin — all  across  it — and  I 
said  to  myself :  'It's  the  big  python.'  But  I 
looked  into  its  eyes — they  were  beautiful  eyes 
— and  saw  it  was  one  of  the  giraffes.  Tell  you, 
though,  a  giraffe  has  the  eyes  of  a  sorrowful 
nun,  and  this  creature  was  just  brimming  over 
with  liquid  tenderness.  The  seven-foot  neck 
rather  spoilt  the  effect,  but  I'll  always  recollect 
those  eyes." 

"Say,  did  you  kiss  the  critter?"  demanded 
the  orchid-hunter  en  route  to  Siam. 

"No;  I  remembered  that  it  was  darn  valua- 
ble, and  I  didn't  want  to  lose  freight  on  it.  I 
was  afraid  it  would  break  its  neck  drawing  its 
head  out  of  my  window — I  had  a  big  deck 
cabin,  of  course — so  I  shoved  it  out  softly  like 
a  hen,  and  the  head  slid  out,  with  those  Mary 
Magdalene  eyes  following  me  to  the  last.  Then 
I  heard  the  quartermaster  calling  on  heaven 
[22] 


A  MENAGERIE  ABOARD 

and  earth  for  his  lost  giraffe,  and  then  the  row 
began  all  up  and  down  the  decks.  The  giraffe 
had  sense  enough  to  duck  its  head  to  avoid 
the  awnings — we  were  awned  from  bow  to 
stern — but  it  clattered  about  like  a  sick  cow, 
the  quartermaster  jumping  after  it,  and  it 
swinging  its  long  neck  like  a  flail.  'Catch  it, 
and  hold  it!'  said  the  quartermaster.  'Catch  a 
typhoon,'  said  I.  'She's  going  overboard.'  The 
spotted  fool  had  heaved  one  foot  over  the  stern 
railings  and  was  trying  to  get  the  other  to 
follow.  It  was  so  happy  at  getting  its  head 
into  the  open  I  thought  it  would  have  crowed — 
I  don't  know  whether  giraffes  crow,  but  it 
heaved  up  its  neck  for  all  the  world  like  a  crow- 
ing cock.  'Come  back  to  your  stable,'  yelled 
the  quartermaster,  grabbing  hold  of  the  brute's 
tail. 

"I  was  nearly  helpless  with  laughing, 
though  I  knew  if  the  concern  went  over  it 
would  be  no  laughing  matter  for  me.  Well, 
by  good  luck  she  came  round — the  quarter- 
master was  a  strong  man  at  a  rope's  end.  First 
of  all  she  slewed  her  neck  round,  and  I  could 
[23] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

see  those  tender,  loving  eyes  under  the  stars 
sort  of  saying:   'Cruel  man!   What  are  you 
doing  to  my  tail?'    Then  the  foot  came  on 
board,  and  she  bumped  herself  up  under  the 
awning,  looking  ready  to  cry  with  disappoint- 
ment.  The  funniest  thing  was  she  didn't  make 
any  noise — a  pig  would  ha'  roused  the  ship  in 
no  time — only  every  time  she  dropped  her  foot 
on  the  deck  it  was  like  firing  a  revolver,  the 
hoofs  clicked  so.   We  headed  her  towards  the 
bows,  back  to  her  moorings — just  like  a  police- 
man showing  a  short-sighted  old  woman  over 
a  crossing.    The  quartermaster  sweated  and 
panted  and  swore,  but  she  never  said  anything 
— only  whacked  her  old  head  despairingly 
against  the  awning  and  the  funnel  case.  Her 
feet  woke  up  the  whole  ship,  and  by  the  time 
we  had  her  fairly  moored  fore  and  aft  the 
population  in  their  night-gear  were  giving  us 
advice.   Then  we  took  up  a  yard  or  two  in  all 
the  moorings  and  turned  in.   No  other  animal 
got  loose  that  voyage,  though  the  old  lady 
looked  at  me  most  reproachfully  every  time  I 
came  that  way,  and  'You've  blasted  my  voung 
[24] 


A  MENAGERIE  ABOARD 

and  tender  innocence'  was  the  expression  of 
her  eyes.  It  was  all  the  quartermaster's  fault 
for  hauling  her  tail.  I  wonder  she  didn't  kick 
him  open.  Well,  of  course,  that  isn't  much  of 
a  yarn,  but  I  remember  once,  in  the  city  of 
Venice,  we  had  a  Malayan  tapir  loose  on  the 
deck,  and  we  had  to  lasso  him.  It  was  this 
way": 

"Guzl  thyar  hair  said  the  steward,  and  I  fled 
down  the  companion  and  missed  the  tale  of  the 
tapir. 


[25] 


A  SMOKE  OF  MANILA* 

THE  man  from  Manila  held  the  floor. 
"Much  care  had  made  him  very  lean 
and  pale  and  hollow-eyed."  Added 
to  which  he  smoked  the  cigars  of  his 
own  country,  and  they  were  bad  for  the  con- 
stitution. He  foisted  his  Stinkadores  Magnifi- 
cosas  and  his  Cuspidores  Imperiallissimos  upon 
all  who  would  accept  them,  and  wondered  that 
the  recipients  of  his  bounty  turned  away  and 
were  sad.  "There  is  nothing,"  said  he,  "like  a 
Manila  cigar."  And  the  pink  pyjamas  and 
blue  pyjamas  and  the  spotted  green  pyjamas, 
all  fluttering  gracefully  in  the  morning  breeze, 
vowed  that  there  was  not  and  never  would 
be. 

"Do  the  Spaniards  smoke  these  vile  brands 
to  any  extent?"  asked  the  Young  Gentleman 


♦"Turnovers,"  Vol.  VII. 

[26] 


A  SMOKE  OF  MANILA 

travelling  for  Pleasure  as  he  inspected  a  fresh 
box  of  Oysters  of  the  East.  "Smoke  'em!" 
said  the  man  from  Manila;  "they  do  nothing 
else  day  and  night."  "Ah!"  said  the  Young 
Gentleman  travelling  for  Pleasure,  in  the  low 
voice  of  one  who  has  received  mortal  injury, 
"that  accounts  for  the  administration  of  the 
country  being  what  it  is.  After  a  man  has 
tried  a  couple  of  these  things  he  would  be  ready 
for  any  crime." 

The  man  from  Manila  took  no  heed  of  the 
insult.  "I  knew  a  case  once,"  said  he,  "when 
a  cigar  saved  a  man  from  the  sin  of  burglary 
and  landed  him  in  quod  for  five  years."  "Was 
he  trying  to  kill  the  man  who  gave  him  the 
cigar?"  said  the  Young  Gentleman  travelling 
for  Pleasure.  "No,  it  was  this  way:  My 
firm's  godowns  stand  close  to  a  creek.  That 
is  to  say,  the  creek  washes  one  face  of  them,  and 
there  are  a  few  things  in  those  godowns  that 
might  be  useful  to  a  man,  such  as  piece-goods 
and  cotton  prints — perhaps  five  thousand  dol- 
lars' worth.  I  happened  to  be  walking  through 
the  place  one  day  when,  for  a  miracle,  I  was 
[27] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

not  smoking.  That  was  two  years  ago." 
"Great  Caesar!  then  he  has  been  smoking  ever 
since!"  murmured  the  Young  Gentleman  trav- 
elling for  Pleasure. 

"Was  not  smoking,"  continued  the  man  from 
Manila.  "I  had  no  business  in  the  godowns. 
They  were  a  short  cut  to  my  house.  When 
half-way  through  them  I  fancied  I  saw  a  little 
curl  of  smoke  rising  from  behind  one  of  the 
bales.  We  stack  our  bales  on  low  saddles, 
much  as  ricks  are  stacked  in  England.  My 
first  notion  was  to  yell.  I  object  to  fire  in 
godowns  on  principle.  It  is  expensive,  what- 
ever the  insurance  may  do.  Luckily  I  sniffed 
before  I  shouted,  and  I  sniffed  good  tobacco 
smoke."  "And  this  was  in  Manila,  you  say?" 
interrupted  the  Young  Gentleman  travelling 
for  Pleasure. 

"Yes,  in  the  only  place  in  the  world  where 
you  get  good  tobacco.  I  knew  we  had  no  bales 
of  the  weed  in  stock,  and  I  suspected  that  a 
man  who  got  behind  print  bales  to  finish  his 
cigar  might  be  worth  looking  up.  I  walked 
between  the  bales  till  I  reached  the  smoke.  It 
[28] 


ASMOKE  OF  MANILA 

was  coming  from  the  ground  under  one  of 
the  saddles.  That's  enough,  I  thought,  and 
I  went  away  to  get  a  couple  of  the  Guarda 
Civile — policemen,  in  fact.  I  knew  if  there 
was  anything  to  be  extracted  from  my  friend 
the  bobbies  would  do  it.  A  Spanish  policeman 
carries  in  the  day-time  nothing  more  than  a 
six-shooter  and  machete,  a  dirk.  At  night  he 
adorns  himself  with  a  repeating  rifle,  which 
he  fires  on  the  slightest  provocation.  Well, 
when  the  policemen  arrived,  they  poked  my 
friend  out  of  his  hiding-place  with  their  dirks, 
hauled  him  out  by  the  hair,  and  kicked  him 
round  the  godown  once  or  twice,  just  to  let 
him  know  that  he  had  been  discovered.  They 
then  began  to  question  him,  and  under  gentle 
pressure — I  thought  he  would  be  pulped  into 
a  jelly,  but  a  Spanish  policeman  always  knows 
when  to  leave  off — he  made  a  clean  breast  of 
the  whole  business.  He  was  part  of  a  gang, 
and  was  to  lie  in  the  godown  all  that  night.  At 
twelve  o'clock  a  boat  manned  by  his  confeder- 
ates was  to  drop  down  the  creek  and  halt  under 
the  godown  windows,  while  he  was  to  hand  out 
[29] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

our  bales.  That  was  their  little  plan.  He  had 
lain  there  about  three  hours,  and  then  he  began 
to  smoke.  I  don't  think  he  noticed  what  he 
was  doing:  smoking  is  just  like  breathing  to 
a  Spaniard.  He  could  not  understand  how 
he  had  betrayed  himself  and  wanted  to  know 
whether  he  had  left  a  leg  sticking  out  under 
the  saddles.  Then  the  Guarda  Civile  lam- 
basted him  all  over  again  for  trifling  with  the 
majesty  of  the  law,  and  removed  him  after 
full  confession. 

"I  put  one  of  my  own  men  under  a  saddle 
with  instructions  to  hand  out  print  bales  to 
anybody  who  might  ask  for  them  in  the  course 
of  the  night.  Meantime  the  police  made  their 
own  arrangements,  which  were  very  compre- 
hensive. 

"At  midnight  a  lumbering  old  barge,  big 
enough  to  hold  about  a  hundred  bales,  came 
down  the  creek  and  pulled  up  under  the  go- 
down  windows,  exactly  as  if  she  had  been  one 
of  my  own  barges.  The  eight  ruffians  in  her 
whistled  all  the  national  airs  of  Manila  as  a 
signal  to  the  confederate,  then  cooling  his  heels 
[30] 


A  SMOKE  OF  MANILA 

in  the  lock-up.  But  my  man  was  ready.  He 
opened  the  window  and  held  quite  a  long  con- 
fab with  these  second-hand  pirates.  They  were 
all  half-breeds  and  Roman  Catholics,  and  the 
way  they  called  upon  all  the  blessed  saints 
to  assist  them  in  their  work  was  edifying.  My 
man  began  tilting  out  the  bales  quite  as  quickly 
as  the  confederate  would  have  done.  Only  he 
stopped  to  giggle  now  and  again,  and  they 
spat  and  swore  at  him  like  cats.  That  made 
him  worse,  and  at  last  he  dropped  yelling  with 
laughter  over  the  half  door  of  the  godown 
goods  window.  Then  one  boat  came  up 
stream  and  another  down  stream,  and  caught 
the  barge  stem  and  stern.  Four  Guarda 
Civiles  were  in  each  boat;  consequently,  eight 
repeating  rifles  were  pointed  at  the  barge, 
which  was  very  nicely  loaded  with  our  bales. 
The  pirates  called  on  the  saints  more  fluently 
than  ever,  threw  up  their  hands,  and  threw 
themselves  on  their  stomachs.  That  was  the 
safest  attitude,  and  it  gave  them  the  chance 
of  cursing  their  luck,  the  barge,  the  godown, 
the  Guarda  Civile,  and  every  saint  in  the  cal- 
[31] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

endar.  They  cursed  the  saints  most,  for  the 
Guarda  Civile  thumped  'em  when  their  re- 
marks became  too  personal.  We  made  them 
put  all  the  bales  back  again.  Then  they  were 
handed  over  to  justice  and  got  five  years 
apiece.  If  they  had  any  dollars  they  would 
get  out  the  next  day.  If  they  hadn't,  they 
would  serve  their  full  time  and  no  ticket-of- 
leave  allowed.    That's  the  whole  story." 

"And  the  only  case  on  record,"  said  the 
Young  Gentleman  travelling  for  Pleasure, 
"where  a  Manila  cigar  was  of  any  use  to  any 
one."  The  man  from  Manila  lit  a  fresh  Cus- 
pidore  and  went  down  to  his  bath. 


[32] 


THE  RED  LAMP* 


STRONG  situation — very  strong, 
sir — quite  the  strongest  one  in 
the  play,  in  fact." 


"What  play?"  said  a  voice 
from  the  bottom  of  the  long  chair  under  the 
bulwarks. 

"The  Red  Lamp." 

"Oh!" 

Conversation  ceased,  and  there  was  an  in- 
dustrious sucking  of  cheroots  for  the  space  of 
half  an  hour  before  the  company  adjourned 
to  the  card-room.  It  was  decidedly  a  night 
for  sleeping  on  deck — warm  as  the  Red  Sea 
and  more  moist  than  Bengal.  Unfortunately, 
every  square  foot  of  the  deck  seemed  to  be  oc- 
cupied by  earlier  comers,  and  in  despair  I 
removed  myself  to  the  extreme  fo'c'sle,  where 


♦"Turnovers,"  Vol.  VII. 

[33] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

the  anchor-chains  churn  rust-dyed  water  from 
the  hawseholes  and  the  lascars  walk  about  with 
slushpots. 

The  throb  of  the  engines  reached  this  part 
of  the  world  as  a  muffled  breathing  which  might 
be  easily  mistaken  for  the  snoring  of  the  ship's 
cow.  Occasionally  one  of  the  fowls  in  the  coops 
waked  and  cheeped  dismally  as  she  thought  of 
to-morrow's  entrees  in  the  saloon,  but  other- 
wise all  was  very,  very  still,  for  the  hour  was 
two  in  the  morning,  when  the  crew  of  a  ship 
are  not  disposed  to  be  lively.  None  came  to 
bear  me  company  save  the  bo'sun's  pet  kittens, 
and  they  were  impolite.  From  where  I  lay  I 
could  look  over  the  whole  length  of  awning, 
ghostly  white  in  the  dark,  and  by  their  con- 
stant fluttering  judged  that  the  ship  was  pitch- 
ing considerably.  The  fo'c'sle  swung  up  and 
down  like  an  uneasy  hydraulic  lift,  and  a  few 
showers  of  spray  found  their  passage  through 
the  hawseholes  from  time  to  time. 

Have  you  ever  felt  that  maddening  sense 
of  incompetence  which  follows  on  watching  the 
work  of  another  man's  office?  The  civilian  is 
[34] 


A  RED  LAMP 

at  home  among  his  despatch-boxes  and  files  of 
pending  cases.  "How  in  the  world  does  he  do 
it?"  asks  the  military  man.  The  budding  of- 
ficer can  arrange  for  the  movements  of  two 
hundred  men  across  country.  "Incomprehen- 
sible!" says  the  civilian.  And  so  it  is  with 
all  alien  employs  from  our  own.  So  it  was 
with  me.  I  knew  that  I  was  lying  among 
all  the  materials  out  of  which  Clark  Russell 
builds  his  books  of  the  sea — the  rush  through 
the  night,  the  gouts  of  foam,  the  singing  of 
the  wind  in  the  rigging  overhead,  and  the  black 
mystery  of  the  water — but  for  the  life  of  me 
I  could  make  nothing  of  them  all. 

"A  topsail  royal  flying  free 
A  bit  of  canvas  was  to  me, 
And  it  was  nothing  more." 

"Oh,  that  a  man  should  have  but  one  poor 
little  life  and  one  incomplete  set  of  experiences 
to  crowd  into  it!"  I  sighed  as  the  bells  of  the 
ship  lulled  me  to  sleep  and  the  lookout  man 
crooned  a  dreary  song. 

I  slept  far  into  the  night,  for  the  clouds 
[35] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

gathered  over  the  sky,  the  stars  died  out,  and 
all  grew  as  black  as  pitch.  But  we  never 
slackened  speed;  we  beat  the  foam  to  left  and 
right  with  clanking  of  chains,  rattling  of  bow- 
ports,  and  savage  noises  of  ripping  and  rend- 
ing from  the  cutwater  ploughing  up  to  the 
luminous  sea-beasts.  I  was  roused  by  the 
words  of  the  man  in  the  smoking-room:  "A 
strong  situation,  sir,  very  strong — quite  the 
strongest  in  the  play,  in  fact — The  Red  Lamp, 
y'  know." 

I  thought  over  the  sentence  lazily  for  a  time, 
and  then — surely  there  was  a  red  lamp  in  the 
air  somewhere — an  intolerable  glare  that 
singed  the  shut  eyelids.  I  opened  my  eyes  and 
looked  forward.  The  lascar  was  asleep,  his 
face  bowed  on  his  knees,  though  he  ought  to 
have  been  roused  by  the  hum  of  a  rapidly  ap- 
proaching city,  by  the  noises  of  men  and 
women  talking  and  laughing  and  drinking.  I 
could  hear  it  not  half  a  mile  away:  it  was 
strange  that  his  ears  should  be  closed. 

The  night  was  so  black  that  one  could  hardly 
breathe;  and  yet  where  did  the  glare  from  the 
[36] 


A  RED  LAMP 

red  lamp  come  from?  Not  from  our  ship: 
she  was  silent  and  asleep — the  officers  on  the 
bridge  were  asleep;  there  was  no  one  of 
four  hundred  souls  awake  but  myself.  And 
the  glare  of  the  red  lamp  went  up  to  the  zenith. 
Small  wonder.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  in  front 
of  us  rolled  a  big  steamer  under  full  steam, 
and  she  was  heading  down  on  us  without  a 
word  of  warning.  Would  the  lookout  man 
never  look  out?  Would  their  crew  be  as  fast 
asleep  as  ours?  It  was  impossible,  for  the 
other  ship  hummed  with  populous  noises,  and 
there  was  the  defiant  tinkle  of  a  piano  rising 
above  all.  She  should  have  altered  her  course, 
or  blown  a  fog-horn. 

I  held  my  breath  while  an  eternity  went  by, 
counted  out  by  the  throbbing  of  my  heart  and 
the  engines.  I  knew  that  it  was  my  duty  to 
call,  but  I  knew  also  that  no  one  could  hear 
me.  Moreover,  I  was  intensely  interested  in 
the  approaching  catastrophe;  interested,  you 
will  understand,  as  one  whom  it  did  in  no  wise 
concern.  By  the  light  of  the  luminous  sea 
thrown  forward  in  sheets  under  the  forefoot  of 
[37] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

the  advancing  steamer  I  could  discern  the 
minutest  details  of  her  structure  from  cat-head 
to  bridge.  Abaft  the  bridge  she  was  crowded 
with  merrymakers — seemed  to  be,  in  fact,  a 
P.  &  O.  vessel  given  up  to  a  ball.  I  wondered 
as  I  leaned  over  the  bulwarks  what  they  would 
say  when  the  crash  came — whether  they  would 
shriek  very  loudly — whether  the  men  and  wom- 
en would  try  to  rush  to  our  decks,  or  whether 
we  would  rush  on  to  theirs.  It  would  not  mat- 
ter in  the  least,  for  at  the  speed  we  were  driv- 
ing both  vessels  would  go  down  together 
locked  through  the  deeps  of  the  sea.  It  oc- 
curred to  me  then  that  the  sea  would  be  cold, 
and  that  instead  of  choking  decently  I  might 
be  one  in  a  mad  rush  for  the  boats — might  be 
crippled  by  a  falling  spar  or  wrenched  plate 
and  left  on  the  heeling  decks  to  die.  Then 
Terror  came  to  me — Fear,  gross  and  over- 
whelming as  the  bulk  of  the  night — Despair 
unrelieved  by  a  single  ray  of  hope. 

We  were  not  fifty  yards  apart  when  the  pas- 
sengers on  the  stranger  caught  sight  of  us  and 
[38] 


A  RED  LAMP 

shrieked  aloud.  I  saw  a  man  pick  up  his  child 
from  one  of  the  benches  and  futilely  attempt 
to  climb  the  rigging.  Then  we  closed — her 
name-plate  ten  feet  above  ours,  looking  down 
into  our  forehatch.  I  heard  the  grinding  as 
of  a  hundred  querns,  the  ripping  of  the  tough 
bow-plates,  and  the  pistol-like  report  of  dis- 
placed rivets  followed  by  the  rush  of  the  sea. 
We  were  sinking  in  mid-ocean. 

****** 

"Beg  y'  pardon,"  said  the  quartermaster, 
shaking  me  by  the  arm,  "but  you  must  have 
been  sleeping  in  the  moonlight  for  the  last 
two  hours,  and  that's  not  good  for  the  eyes. 
Didn't  seem  to  make  you  sleep  easy,  either." 
I  opened  my  eyes  heavily.  My  face  was 
swollen  and  aching,  for  on  my  forehead  lay 
the  malignant  splendour  of  the  moon.  The 
glare  of  the  Red  Lamp  had  vanished  with  the 
brilliantly-lighted  ship,  but  the  ghastly  shrieks 
of  her  drowning  crew  continued. 

"What's  that?"  I  asked  tremulously  of  the 
quartermaster.  "Was  it  real?" 

[39] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


"Pork  chops  in  the  saloon  to-morrow,"  said 
the  quartermaster.  "The  butcher  he  got  up  at 
four  bells  to  put  the  old  squeaker  out  of  the 
way.   Them's  his  dying  ejaculations." 

I  dragged  my  bedding  aft  and  went  to  sleep. 


[40] 


THE  SHADOW  OF  HIS  HAND* 


<  <  TT  COME  from  San  Jose,"  he  said. 

"San  Jose,  Calaveras  County,  Cali- 

A  fornia:  that's  my  place."  I  pricked 
up  my  ears  at  the  mention  of  Cala- 
veras County.  Bret  Harte  has  made  that 
sacred  ground. 

"Yes?"  said  I  politely.  Always  be  polite  to 
a  gentleman  from  Calaveras  County.  For 
aught  you  know  he  may  be  a  lineal  descendant 
of  the  great  Colonel  Starbottle. 

"Did  you  ever  know  Vermilyea  of  San  Luis 
Obispo?"  continued  the  stranger,  chewing  the 
plug  of  meditation. 

"No,"  said  I.  Heaven  alone  knows  where 
lies  San  Luis  Obispo,  but  I  was  not  going  to 
expose  my  ignorance.    Besides,  there  might 


'"Turnovers,"  Vol.  VII. 

[41] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


be  a  story  at  the  back  of  it  all.  "What  was  the 
special  weakness  of  Mister  Vermilyea?" 

"Vermilyea!  He  weak!  Lot  Vermilyea 
never  had  a  weakness  that  you  might  call  a 
weakness  until  subsequent  events  transpired. 
Then  that  weakness  developed  into  White  Rye. 
All  Westerners  drink  White  Rye.  On  the 
Eastern  coast  they  drink  Bourbon.  Lot  tried 
both  when  his  heart  was  broken.  Both — by  the 
quart." 

"D'  you  happen  to  remember  what  broke  his 
heart?"  I  said. 

"This  must  be  your  first  trip  to  the  States, 
sir,  or  you  would  know  that  Lot's  heart  was 
broken  by  his  father-in-law.  Lot's  congrega- 
tion— he  took  to  Religion — always  said  that 
he  had  no  business  fooling  with  a  father-in- 
law.  A  good  many  other  people  said  that  too. 
But  I  always  adhered  to  Lot.  'Why  don't  you 
kill  the  animal,  Lot?'  I  used  to  say.  'I  can't. 
He's  the  father  of  my  wife,'  Lot  used  to  say. 
'Loan  him  money  then  and  settle  him  on  the 
other  side  of  the  States,'  I  used  to  say.  'The 
old  clam  won't  move,'  Lot  used  to  say." 
[42] 


THE  SHADOW  OF  HIS  HAND 

"Half  a  minute.  What  was  the  actual 
trouble  between  Vermilyea  and  his  father-in- 
law?  Did  he  borrow  money?" 

"I'm  coming  to  that,"  said  the  stranger  calm- 
ly. "It  arrived  this  way.  Lot  had  a  notion  to 
get  married.  Some  men  get  that  idea.  He 
went  to  'Frisco  and  pawned  out  his  heart — 
Lot  had  a  most  feeling  heart,  and  that  was 
his  ruin — to  a  girl  who  lived  at  back  of  Kear- 
ney Street.  I've  forgotten  her  given  name, 
but  the  old  man's  name  was  Dougherty.  Guess 
he  was  a  naturalised  Irishman.  The  old  man 
did  not  see  the  merits  of  Lot  when  he  went 
sparking  after  the  girl  evenings.  He  fired 
Lot  out  off  the  stoop  three  or  four  times.  Lot 
didn't  hit  him  because  he  was  fond  of  the 
daughter.  He  just  quit  like  a  lamb;  the  old 
man  welting  into  him  with  anything  that  came 
handy — sticks  and  besoms,  and  such.  Lot  en- 
dured that,  being  a  tough  man.  Every  time 
Lot  was  fired  out  he  would  wait  till  the  old 
man  was  pretty  well  pumped  out.  Then  he 
used  to  turn  round  and  say,  'When's  the  wed- 
ding to  be?'  Dougherty  used  to  ramp  round 
[43] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

Lot  while  the  girl  hid  herself  till  the  breeze 
abated.  He  had  a  peculiar  aversion  to  domi- 
ciliary visits  from  Lot,  had  Dougherty.  I've 
my  own  theory  on  the  subject.  I'll  explain 
it  later  on.  At  last  Dougherty  got  tired  of 
Lot  and  his  peacefulness.  The  girl  stuck  to 
him  for  all  she  was  worth.  Lot  never  budged. 
'If  you  want  to  marry  her,'  said  the  old  man, 
'just  drop  your  long-suffering  for  half  an 
hour.  Stand  up  to  me,  Lot,  and  we'll  run  this 
thing  through  with  our  hands.'  'If  I  must,  I 
must,'  said  Lot,  and  with  that  they  began  the 
argument  up  and  down  the  parlour  floor.  Lot 
he  was  fighting  for  his  wife.  He  set  con- 
siderable value  on  the  girl.  The  old  man  he 
was  fighting  for  the  fun  of  the  affair.  Lot 
whipped.  He  handled  the  old  man  tenderly 
out  of  regard  for  his  connections.  All  the  same 
he  fixed  him  up  pretty  thoroughly.  When 
he  crawled  off  the  old  man  he  had  received  his 
permission  to  marry  the  girl.  Old  man 
Dougherty  ran  round  'Frisco  advertising  Lot 
for  the  tallest  fighter  in  the  town.  Lot  was  a 
respectable  sort  of  man  and  considerable  ab- 
[  44  ] 


THE  SHADOW  OF  HIS  HAND 

sorbed  in  preparing  for  his  wedding.  It  didn't 
please  him  any  to  receive  invitations  from  the 
boss  fighting  men  of  'Frisco — professional  in- 
vitations, you  must  understand.  I  guess  he 
cussed  the  father-in-law  to  be. 

"When  he  was  married,  he  concluded  to  lo- 
cate in  'Frisco,  and  started  business  there.  A 
married  man  don't  keep  his  muscle  up  any. 
Old  man  Dougherty  he  must  have  counted  on 
that.  By  the  time  Lot's  first  child  was  born 
he  came  around  suffering  for  a  fight.  He 
painted  Lot's  house  crimson.  Lot  endured 
that.  He  got  a  hold  of  the  baby  and  began 
yanking  it  around  by  the  legs  to  see  if  it  could 
squeal  worth  listening  to.  Lot  stretched  him. 
Old  man  howled  with  delight.  Lot  couldn't 
well  hand  his  father-in-law  over  to  the  police, 
so  they  had  it,  knuckle  and  tooth,  all  round  the 
front  floor,  and  the  old  man  he  quit  by  the 
window,  considerably  mashed  up.  Lot  was 
fair  spent,  not  having  kept  up  his  muscle.  My 
notion  is  that  old  man  Dougherty  being  a  boss 
fighter  couldn't  get  his  fighting  regularly  till 
Lot  married  into  the  family.  Then  he  reck- 
[45]  ' 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

oned  on  a  running  discussion  to  warm  up  his 
bones.  Lot  was  too  fond  of  his  wife  to  dis- 
oblige him.  Any  man  in  his  senses  would  have 
brought  the  old  man  before  the  courts,  or 
clubbed  him,  or  laid  him  out  stiff.  But  Lot 
was  always  tender-hearted. 

"Soon  as  old  man  Dougherty  got  his  senses 
together  off  the  pavement,  he  argued  that  Lot 
was  considerable  less  of  a  fighter  than  he  had 
been.  That  pleased  the  old  man.  He  was 
plastered  and  caulked  up  by  the  doctors,  and 
as  soon  as  he  could  move  he  interviewed  Lot 
and  made  remarks.  Lot  didn't  much  care  what 
he  said,  but  when  he  came  to  casting  reflections 
on  the  parentage  of  the  baby,  Lot  shut  the 
office  door  and  played  round  for  half  an  hour 
till  theiwalls  glittered  like  the  evening  sun.  Old 
man  Dougherty  crawled  out,  but  he  crowed  as 
he  crawled.  'Praise  the  blessed  saints,'  he  said, 
'I  kin  get  my  fighting  along  o'  my  meals.  Lot, 
ye  have  prolonged  my  life  a  century.' 

"Guess  Lot  would  like  to  see  him  dead  now. 
He  is  an  old  man,  but  most  amazing  tough. 
He  has  been  righting  Lot  for  a  matter  of  three 
[46] 


THE  SHADOW  OF  HIS  HAND 

years.  If  Lot  made  a  lucky  bit  of  trade,  the 
old  man  would  come  along  and  fight  him  for 
luck.  If  Lot  lost  a  little,  the  old  man  would 
fight  him  to  teach  him  safe  speculation.  It 
took  all  Lot's  time  to  keep  even  with  him.  No 
man  in  business  can  'tend  his  business  and  fight 
in  streaks.  Lot's  trade  fell  off  every  time  he 
laid  himself  out  to  stretch  the  old  man.  Worst 
of  it  was  that  when  Lot  was  made  a  Deacon  of 
his  church,  the  old  man  fought  him  most  ter- 
rible for  the  honour  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church.  Lot  whipped,  of  course.  He  always 
whipped.  Old  man  Dougherty  went  round 
among  the  other  Deacons  and  lauded  Lot  for 
a  boss  pugilist,  not  meaning  to  hurt  Lot's 
prospects.  Lot  had  to  explain  the  situation  to 
the  church  in  general.    They  accepted  it. 

"Old  man  Dougherty  he  fought  on.  Age 
had  no  effect  on  him.  Lot  always  whipped,  but 
nothing  would  satisfy  the  old  man.  Lot  shook 
all  his  teeth  out  till  his  gums  were  as  bare  as 
a  sand-bar.  Old  man  Dougherty  came  along 
lisping  his  invitation  to  the  dance.  They 
fought. 

[47] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

"When  Lot  shifted  to  San  Luis  Obispo,  old 
man  Dougherty  he  came  along  too — craving 
for  his  fight.  It  was  cocktails  and  plug  to 
him.  It  grew  on  him.  Lot  handled  him  too 
gently  because  of  the  wife.  The  old  man  could 
come  to  the  scratch  once  a  month,  and  always 
at  the  most  inconvenient  time.  They  fought. 

"Last  I  heard  of  Lot  he  was  sinking  into 
the  tomb.  'It's  not  the  fighting,'  he  said  to 
me.  'It's  the  darned  monotony  of  the  circus. 
He  knows  I  can  whip  him,  but  he  won't  rest 
satisfied.  'Lay  him  out,  Lot,'  said  I ;  'fracture 
his  cranium  or  gouge  him.  This  show  is  foolish 
all  round.'  'I  can't  lay  him  out,'  said  Lot. 
'He's  my  father-in-law.  But  don't  it  strike  you 
I've  a  deal  to  be  thankful  for?  If  he  had  been 
a  Jew  he'd  have  fought  on  Sundays  when  I 
was  doing  Deacon.  I've  been  too  gentle  with 
him;  the  old  man  knows  my  spot  place,  but 
I've  a  deal  to  be  thankful  for.' 

"Strikes  me  that  thankfulness  of  Lot's  sort 
is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  cussed  affecta- 
tion. Say!" 

I  said  nothing. 

[48] 


A  LITTLE  MORE  BEEF* 


LITTLE  more  beef,  please,"  said 
the  fat  man  with  the  grey  whis- 
kers and  the  spattered  waistcoat. 
"You  can't  eat  too  much  o'  good 


beef — not  even  when  the  prices  are  going  up 
hoof  over  hock."  And  he  settled  himself  down 
to  load  in  a  fresh  cargo. 

Now,  this  is  how  the  fat  man  had  come  by 
his  meal.  One  thousand  miles  away,  a  red 
Texan  steer  was  preparing  to  go  to  bed  for 
the  night  in  the  company  of  his  fellows — myr- 
iads of  his  fellows.  From  dawn  till  late  dusk 
he  had  loafed  across  the  leagues  of  grass  and 
grunted  savagely  as  each  mouthful  proved  to 
his  mind  that  grass  was  not  what  he  had  known 
it  in  his  youth.  But  the  steer  was  wrong.  That 
summer  had  brought  great  drought  to  Mon- 


♦"Turnovers,"  Vol.  VII. 

[49] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

tana  and  Northern  Dakota.  The  cattle  feed 
was  withering  day  by  day,  and  the  more  pru- 
dent stock  owners  had  written  to  the  East  for 
manufactured  provender.  Only  the  little  cac- 
tus that  grows  with  the  grasses  appeared  to 
enjoy  itself.  The  cattle  certainly  did  not;  and 
the  cowboys  from  the  very  beginning  of  spring 
had  used  language  considered  profane  even  for 
the  cowboy.  What  their  ponies  said  has  never 
been  recorded.  The  ponies  had  the  worst  time 
of  all,  and  at  each  nightly  camp  whispered  to 
each  other  their  longings  for  the  winter,  when 
they  would  be  turned  out  on  the  freezing 
ranges — galled  from  wither  to  croup,  but 
riderless — thank  Heaven,  riderless.  On  these 
various  miseries  the  sun  looked  down  impartial. 
His  business  was  to  cake  the  ground  and  ruin 
the  grasses. 

The  cattle — the  acres  of  huddled  cattle — 
were  restless.  In  the  first  place,  they  were 
forced  to  scatter  for  graze;  and  in  the  second, 
the  heat  told  on  their  tempers  and  made  them 
prod  each  other  with  their  long  horns.  In  the 
heart  of  the  herd  you  would  have  thought  men 
[50] 


A  LITTLE  MORE  BEEF 

were  fighting  with  single-sticks.  On  the  out- 
skirts, posted  at  quarter-mile  intervals,  sat  the 
cowboys  on  their  ponies,  the  brims  of  their  hats 
tilted  over  their  sun-skinned  noses,  their  feet 
out  of  the  big  brown-leather  hooded  stirrups, 
and  their  hands  gripping  the  horn  of  the  heavy 
saddle  to  keep  themselves  from  falling  on  to 
the  ground — asleep.  A  cowboy  can  sleep  at 
full  gallop;  on  the  other  hand,  he  can  keep 
awake  also  at  full  gallop  for  eight  and  forty 
hours  and  wear  down  six  unamiable  bronchos 
in  the  process. 

Lafe  Parmalee;  Shwink,  the  German  who 
could  not  ride  but  had  a  blind  affection  for 
cattle  from  the  branding-yard  to  the  butcher's 
block;  Michigan,  so  called  because  he  said  he 
came  from  California  but  spoke  not  the  Cali- 
fornian  tongue;  Jim  from  San  Diego,  to  dis- 
tinguish him  from  other  Jims,  and  The 
Corpse,  were  the  outposts  of  the  herd.  The 
Corpse  had  won  his  name  from  a  statement, 
made  in  the  fulness  of  much  McBrayer 
whisky,  that  he  had  once  been  a  graduate  of 
Corpus  Christi.  He  spoke  truth,  but  to  the 
[51] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

wrong  audience.  The  inhabitants  of  the  Elite 
Saloon,  after  several  attempts  to  get  the  hang 
of  the  name,  dubbed  the  speaker  The  Corpse, 
and  as  long  as  he  cinched  a  broncho  or  jingled 
a  spur  within  four  hundred  miles  of  Livingston 
— yea,  far  in  the  south,  even  to  the  unexplored 
borders  of  the  sheep-eater  Indians — he  was 
known  by  that  unlovely  name.  How  he  had 
passed  from  college  to  cattle  no  man  knew, 
and,  according  to  the  etiquette  of  the  West,  no 
man  asked.  He  was  not  by  any  means  a  ten- 
derfoot— had  no  unmanly  weakness  for  wash- 
ing, did  not  in  the  least  object  to  appearing  at 
the  wild  and  wonderful  reunions  held  nightly 
in  "Miss  Minnie's  parlour,"  whose  flaring  ad- 
vertisement did  not  in  the  least  disturb  the  pro- 
prieties of  Wachoma  Junction,  and,  in  com- 
mon with  his  associates,  was,  when  drunk, 
ready  to  shoot  at  anything  or  anybody.  He 
was  not  proud.  He  had  condescended  to  take 
in  hand  and  educate  a  young  and  promising 
Chicago  drummer,  who  by  evil  fate  had  wan- 
dered into  that  wilderness,  where  all  his  cun- 
ning was  of  no  account;  and  from  that  youth's 
[52] 


A  LITTLE  MORE  BEEF 

quivering  hand — outstretched  by  command — 
had  shot  away  the  top  of  a  wineglass.  The 
Corpse  was  recognised  in  the  freemasonry  of 
the  craft  as  "one  of  the  C.M.R.'s  boys,  and 
tough  at  that." 

The  C.M.R.  controlled  much  cattle,  and 
their  slaughter-houses  in  Chicago  bubbled  the 
blood  of  beeves  all  day  long.  Their  salt-beef 
fed  the  sailor  on  the  sea,  and  their  iced,  best 
firsts,  the  housekeeper  in  the  London  suburbs. 
Not  even  the  firm  knew  how  many  cowboys 
they  employed,  but  all  the  firm  knew  that  on 
the  fourteenth  day  of  July  their  stockyards  at 
Wachoma  Junction  were  to  be  filled  with  two 
thousand  head  of  cattle,  ready  for  immediate 
shipment  to  Chicago  while  prices  yet  ruled 
high,  and  before  the  grass  had  withered  utterly. 
Lafe,  Michigan,  Jim,  The  Corpse  and  the 
others  knew  this  too,  and  were  heartily  glad  of 
it,  because  they  would  be  paid  up  in  Chicago 
for  their  half-year's  work,  and  would  then  do 
their  best  towards  painting  that  town  in  purest 
vermilion.  They  would  get  drunk ;  they  would 
gamble,  and  would  otherwise  enjoy  themselves 
[53] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

till  they  were  broke;  and  then  they  would  hire 
out  again. 

The  sun  dropped  behind  the  rolling  hills; 
and  the  cattle  halted  for  the  night,  cheered  and 
cooled  by  a  little  wandering  breeze.  The  red 
steer's  mother  had  been  caught  in  a  hailstorm 
five  years  ago.  Till  she  went  the  way  of  all 
cow-flesh  she  missed  no  opportunity  of  telling 
her  son  to  beware  of  the  hot  day  and  the  cold 
wind  that  does  not  know  its  own  mind.  "When 
it  blows  five  ways  at  once,"  said  she,  "and 
makes  your  horns  feel  creepy,  get  away,  my 
son.  Follow  the  time-honoured  instinct  of  our 
tribe,  and  run.  I  ran" — she  looked  ruefully  at 
the  scars  on  her  side — "but  that  was  in  a  barb- 
wire  country,  and  it  hurt  me.  None  the  less, 
run."  The  red  steer  chewed  his  cud,  and  the 
little  wind  out  of  the  darkness  played  round  his 
horns — all  five  ways  at  once.  The  cowboys 
lifted  up  their  voices  in  unmelodious  song,  that 
the  cattle  might  know  where  they  were,  and 
began  slowly  walking  round  the  recumbent 
herd.  "Do  anybody's  horns  feel  creepy?" 
queried  the  red  steer  of  his  neighbours.  "My 
[54] 


A  LITTLE  MORE  BEEF 


mother  told  me" — and  he  repeated  the  tale,  to 
the  edification  of  the  yearlings  and  the  three- 
year-olds  breathing  heavily  at  his  side. 

The  song  of  the  cowboys  rose  higher.  The 
cattle  bowed  their  heads.  Their  men  were  at 
hand.  They  were  safe.  Something  had  hap- 
pened to  the  quiet  stars.  They  were  dying  out 
one  by  one,  and  the  wind  was  freshening. 
"Bless  my  hoofs!"  muttered  a  yearling,  "my 
horns  are  beginning  to  feel  creepy."  Softly  the 
red  steer  lifted  himself  from  the  ground. 
"Come  away,"  quoth  he  to  the  yearling. 
"Come  away  to  the  outskirts,  and  we'll  move. 
My  mother  said  .  .  ."  The  innocent  fool  fol- 
lowed, and  a  white  heifer  saw  them  move. 
Being  a  woman  she  naturally  bellowed  "Tim- 
ber wolves!"  and  ran  forward  blindly  into  a 
dun  steer  dreaming  over  clover.  Followed  the 
thunder  of  cattle  rising  to  their  feet,  and  the 
triple  crack  of  a  whip.  The  little  wind  had 
dropped  for  a  moment,  only  to  fall  on  the 
herd  with  a  shriek  and  a  few  stinging  drops  of 
hail,  that  stung  as  keenly  as  the  whips.  The 
herd  broke  into  a  trot,  a  canter,  and  then  a 
[55] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

mad  gallop.  Black  fear  was  behind  them, 
black  night  in  front.  They  headed  into  the 
night,  bellowing  with  terror;  and  at  their  side 
rode  the  men  with  the  whips.  The  ponies 
grunted  as  they  felt  the  raking  spurs.  They 
knew  that,  an  all-night  gallop  lay  before  them, 
and  woe  betide  the  luckless  cayuse  that  stum- 
bled in  that  ride.  Then  fell  the  hail — blinding 
and  choking  and  flogging  in  one  and  the  same 
stroke.  The  herd  opened  like  a  fan.  The  red 
steer  headed  a  contingent  he  knew  not  whither. 
A  man  with  a  whip  rode  at  his  right  flank.  Be- 
hind him  the  lightning  showed  a  field  of  glim- 
mering horns,  and  of  muzzles  flecked  with 
foam;  a  field  of  red  terror-strained  eyes  and 
shaggy  frontlets.  The  man  looked  back  also, 
and  his  terror  was  greater  than  that  of  the 
beasts.  The  herd  had  surrounded  him  in  the 
darkness.  His  salvation  lay  in  the  legs  of 
Whisky  Peat — and  Whisky  Peat  knew  it — 
knew  it  until  an  unseen  gopher  hole  received 
his  near  forefoot  as  he  strained  every  nerve — 
in  the  heart  of  the  flying  herd,  with  the  red 
steer  at  his  flanks.  Then,  being  only  rn  over- 
[56] 


A  LITTLE  MORE  BEEF 


worked  cayuse,  Whisky  Feat  fell,  and  the  red 
steer  fancied  that  there  was  something  soft  on 
the  ground. 

****** 

It  was  Michigan,  Jim  and  Lafe  who  at  last 
brought  the  herd  to  a  standstill  as  the  dawn 
was  breaking.  "What's  come  to  The  Corpse?" 
quoth  Lafe.  Jim  loosened  the  girths  of  his 
quivering  pony  and  made  answer  slowly :  "On- 
less  I'm  a  blamed  fool,  the  gentleman  is  now 
livin'  up  to  his  durned  appellation  'bout  fifteen 
miles  back— what  there  is  of  him  and  the  cay- 
use." "Let's  go  and  look,"  said  Lafe,  shud- 
dering slightly,  for  the  morning  air,  you  must 
understand,  was  raw.  "Let's  go  to — a  much 
hotter  place  than  Texas,"  responded  Jim. 
"Get  the  steers  to  the  Junction  first.  Guess 
what's  left  of  The  Corpse  will  keep." 

And  it  did.  And  that  was  how  the  fat  man 
in  Chicago  got  his  beef.  It  belonged  to  the 
red  steer. 


[57] 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  FALL* 


MERE  English  will  not  do  justice  to 
the  event.    Let  us  attempt  it  ac- 
cording to  the  custom   of  the 
French.  Thus  and  so  following: 
Listen  to  a  history  of  the  most  painful — and 
of  the  most  true.   You  others,  the  Governors, 
the  Lieutenant-Governors,  and  the  Commis- 
sionaires of  the  Oriental  Indias. 

It  is  you,  foolishly  outside  of  the  truth  in 
prey  to  illusions  so  blind  that  I  of  them  re- 
main so  stupefied — it  is  to  you  that  I  address 
myself! 

Know  you  Sir  Cyril  Wollobie,  K.C.S.L, 
C.M.G.,  and  all  the  other  little  things? 

He  was  of  the  Sacred  Order  of  Yourself — 
a  man  responsible  enormously — charged  of  the 
conservation  of  millions    .    .  . 


'"Turnovers,"  Vol.  VIII. 

[58] 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  FALL 


Of  people.  That  is  understood.  The  In- 
dian Government  conserves  not  its  rupees. 

He  was  the  well-loved  of  kings.  I  have  seen 
the  Viceroy — which  is  the  Lorr-Maire — em- 
brace him  of  both  arms. 

That  was  in  Simla.  All  things  are  possible 
in  Simla. 

Even  embraces. 

His  wife!  Mon  Dieu,  his  wife! 

The  aheuried  imagination  prostrates  itself 
at  the  remembrance  of  the  splendours  Orien- 
tals of  the  Lady  Cyril — the  very  respectable 
the  Lady  Wollobie. 

That  was  in  Simla.  All  things  are  possible 
in  Simla.  Even  wives.  In  those  days  I  was 
— what  you  call — a  Schnobb.  I  am  now  a 
much  larger  Schnobb.  Voila  the  only  differ- 
ence. Thus  it  is  true  that  travel  expands  the 
mind. 

But  let  us  return  to  our  Wollobies. 

I  admired  that  man  there  with  the  both 
hands.  I  crawled  before  the  Lady  Wollobie — 
platonically.  The  man  the  most  brave  would 
be  only  platonic  towards  that  lady.  And  I 
[59] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


was  also  afraid.  Subsequently  I  went  to  a 
dance.  The  wine  equalled  not  the  splendour 
of  the  Wollobies.  Nor  the  food.  But  there 
was  upon  the  floor  an  open  space — large  and 
park-like.  It  protected  the  dignity  Wollobi- 
callisme.  It  was  guarded  by  Aides-de-Camp. 
With  blue  silk  in  their  coat-tails — turned  up. 
With  pink  eyes  and  white  moustaches  to  ravish. 
Also  turned  up. 

To  me  addressed  himself  an  Aide-de-Camp. 

That  was  in  Simla.  To-day  I  do  not  speak 
to  Aides-de-Camp. 

I  confine  myself  exclusively  to  the  cab- 
drivaire.  He  does  not  know  so  much  bad  lan- 
guage, but  he  can  drive  better. 

I  approached,  under  the  protection  of  the 
Aide-de-Camp,  the  luminosity  of  Sir  Wollobie. 

The  world  entire  regarded. 

The  band  stopped.  The  lights  burned  blue. 
A  domestic  dropped  a  plate. 

It  was  an  inspiring  moment. 

From  the  summit  of  Jakko  forty-five  mon- 
kies  looked  down  upon  the  crisis. 

Sir  Wollobie  spoke. 

[60] 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  FALL 


To  me  in  that  expanse  of  floor  cultured  and 
park-like.  He  said:  "I  have  long  desired  to 
make  your  acquaintance." 

The  blood  bouilloned  in  my  head.  I  became 
pink.  I  was  aneantied  under  the  weight  of 
an  embarras  insubrimable. 

At  that  moment  Sir  Wollobie  became  ob- 
livious of  my  personality.  That  was  his 
custom. 

Wiping  my  face  upon  my  coat-tails  I 
refugied  myself  among  the  foules. 

I  had  been  spoken  to  by  Sir  Wollobie.  That 
was  in  Simla.   That  also  is  history. 

^  4fc 

Pass  now  several  years.  To  the  day  before 
yesterday ! 

This  also  is  history — farcical,  immense, 
tragi-comic,  but  true. 

Know  you  the  Totnam  Cortrode? 

Here  lives  Maple,  who  sells  washing  appli- 
ances and  tables  of  exotic  legs. 

Here  voyages  also  a  Omnibuse  Proletariat. 

That  is  to  say  for  One  penny. 

Two  pence  is  the  refined  volupte  of  the 
Aristocrat. 

[61] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 
I  am  of  the  people. 

Entre  nous  the  connection  is  not  desired  by 
us.  The  people  address  to  me  epithets,  entirely 
unprintable.  I  reply  that  they  should  wash. 
The  situation  is  strained.  Hence  the  Strike 
Docks  and  the  Demonstrations  Laborious. 

Upon  the  funeste  tumbril  of  the  Proletariat 
I  take  my  seat. 

I  demand  air  outside  upon  the  roof. 

I  will  have  all  my  penny. 

The  tumbril  advances. 

A  man  aged  loses  his  equilibrium  and  de- 
posits himself  into  my  lap. 

Following  the  custom  of  the  Brutal  Lon- 
doner I  demand  the  Devil  where  he  shoves 
himself. 

He  apologises  supplicatorically. 
I  grunt. 

Encore  the  tumbril  shakes  herself. 
I  appropriate  the  desired  seat  of  the  old 
man. 

The  conductaire  cries  to  loud  voice:  "Fare, 
Guvnor." 

He  produces  one  penny. 

[02] 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  FALL 

A  reminiscence  phantasmal  provokes  itself. 

I  beat  him  on  the  back. 

It  is  Sir  Wollobie;  the  ex-Everything! 

Also  the  ex-Everything  else! 

Figure  you  the  situation ! 

He  clasps  my  hand. 

As  a  child  clasps  the  hand  of  its  nurse. 

He  demands  of  me  particular  rensignments 
of  my  health.   It  is  to  him  a  matter  important. 

Other  time  he  regulated  the  health  of  forty- 
five  millions. 

I  riposte.  I  enquire  of  his  liver — his  pan- 
creas, his  abdomen. 

The  sacred  internals  of  Sir  Wollobie! 

He  has  them  all.  And  they  all  make  him 
ill. 

He  is  very  lonely.  He  speaks  of  his  wife. 
There  is  no  Lady  Wollobie,  but  a  woman  in 
a  flat  in  Bays  water  who  cries  in  her  sleep  for 
more  curricles. 

He  does  not  say  this,  but  I  understand. 

He  derides  the  Council  of  the  Indian  Office. 
He  imprecates  the  Government. 

He  curses  the  journals. 

[63] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

He  has  a  clob.   He  curses  that  clob. 

Females  with  teeth  monstrous  explain  to  him 
the  theory  of  Government. 

Men  of  long  hair,  the  psychologues  of  the 
paint-pots,  correct  him  tenderly,  but  from 
above. 

He  has  known  of  the  actualities  of  life — 
Death,  Power,  Responsibility,  Honour — the 
Good  accomplished,  the  effacement  of  Wrong 
for  forty  years. 

There  remains  to  him  a  seat  in  a  penny  'bus. 

If  I  do  not  take  him  from  that. 

I  rap  my  heels  on  the  knife-board.  I  sing 
"tra  la  la"   I  am  also  well  disposed  to  larmes. 

He  courbes  himself  underneath  an  ulstaire 
and  he  damns  the  fog  to  eternity. 

He  wills  not  that  I  leave  him.  He  desires 
that  I  come  to  dinner. 

I  am  grave.  I  think  upon  Lady  Wollobie — 
shorn  of  chaprassies — at  the  Clob.  Not  in 
Bays  water. 

I  accept.  He  will  bore  me  affreusely,  but 
...  I  have  taken  his  seat. 

He  descends  from  the  tumbril  of  his  humilia- 
[64] 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  FALL 


tion,  and  the  street  hawker  rolls  a  barrow  up 
his  waistcoat. 

Then  intervenes  the  fog — dense,  impenetra- 
ble, hopeless,  without  end. 

It  is  because  of  the  fog  that  there  is  a  drop 
upon  the  end  of  my  nose  so  chiselled. 

Gentlemen  the  Governors,  the  Lieutenant- 
Governors  and  the  Commissaires,  behold  the 
doom  prepared. 

I  am  descended  to  the  gates  of  your  Life  in 
Death.   Which  is  Brompton  or  Bayswater. 

You  do  not  believe?  You  will  try  the  con- 
stituencies when  you  return;  is  it  not  so? 

You  will  fail.   As  others  failed. 

Your  seat  waits  you  on  the  top  of  an  Omni- 
buse  Proletariat. 

I  shall  be  there. 

You  will  embrace  me  as  a  shipwrecked  man 
embraces  a  log.  You  will  be  "dam  glad  t'  see 
me." 

I  shall  grin. 

Oh  Life!  Oh  Death!  Oh  Power!  Oh  Toil! 
Oh  Hope!  Oh  Stars!  Oh  Honour!  Oh  Lodg- 
ings! Oh  Fog!  Oh  Omnibuses!  Oh  Des- 
pair!  Oh  Skittles! 

[65] 


GRIFFITHS  THE  SAFE  MAN* 


AS  the  title  indicates,  this  story  deals 
with  the  safeness  of  Griffiths  the  safe 
man,  the  secure  person,  the  reliable 
individual,  the  sort  of  man  you 
would  bank  with.  I  am  proud  to  write  about 
Griffiths,  for  I  owe  him  a  pleasant  day.  This 
story  is  dedicated  to  my  friend  Griffiths,  the 
remarkably  trustworthy  mortal. 

In  the  beginning  there  were  points  about 
Griffiths.  He  quoted  proverbs.  A  man  who 
quotes  proverbs  is  confounded  by  proverbs. 
He  is  also  confounded  by  his  friends.  But  I 
never  confounded  GrirTths — not  even  in  that 
supreme  moment  when  the  sweat  stood  on  his 
brow  in  agony  and  his  teeth  were  fixed  like 
bayonets  and  he  swore  horribly.  Even  then, 
I  say,  I  sat  on  my  own  trunk,  the  trunk  that 


♦"Turnovers,"  Vol.  VII. 

[66] 


GRIFFITHS  THE  SAFE  MAN 

opened,  and  told  Griffiths  that  I  had  always 
respected  him,  but  never  more  than  at  the  pres- 
ent moment.    He  was  so  safe,  y'  know. 

Safeness  is  a  matter  of  no  importance  to 
me.  If  my  trunk  won't  lock  when  I  jump 
on  it  thrice,  I  strap  it  up  and  go  on  to  some- 
thing else.  If  my  carpet-bag  is  too  full,  I 
let  the  tails  of  shirts  and  the  ends  of  ties  bubble 
over  and  go  down  the  street  with  the  affair. 
It  all  comes  right  in  the  end,  and  if  it  does  not, 
what  is  a  man  that  he  should  fight  against 
Fate? 

But  Griffiths  is  not  constructed  in  that  man- 
ner. He  says:  "Safe  bind  is  safe  find."  That, 
rather,  is  what  he  used  to  say.  He  has  seen 
reason  to  alter  his  views.  Everything  about 
Griffiths  is  safe — entirely  safe.  His  trunk  is 
locked  by  two  hermetical  gun-metal  double- 
end  Chubbs;  his  bedding-roll  opens  to  a  letter 
padlock  capable  of  two  million  combinations; 
his  hat-box  has  a  lever  patent  safety  on  it ;  and 
the  grief  of  his  life  is  that  he  cannot  lock  up 
the  ribs  of  his  umbrella  safely.  If  you  could 
get  at  his  soul  you  would  find  it  ready  strapped 
[67] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

up  and  labelled  for  heaven.   That  is  Griffiths. 

When  we  went  to  Japan  together,  Griffiths 
kept  all  his  money  under  lock  and  key.  I 
carried  mine  in  my  coat-tail  pocket.  But  all 
Griffiths'  contraptions  did  not  prevent  him 
from  spending  exactly  as  much  as  I  did.  You 
see,  when  he  had  worried  his  way  through  the 
big  strap,  and  the  little  strap,  and  the  slide- 
valve,  and  the  spring  lock,  and  the  key  that 
turned  twice  and  a  quarter,  he  felt  as  though 
he  had  earned  any  money  he  found,  whereas 
I  could  get  masses  of  sinful  wealth  by  merely 
pulling  out  my  handkerchief — dollars  and  five 
dollars  and  ten  dollars,  all  mixed  up  with  the 
tobacco  or  flying  down  the  road.  They  looked 
much  too  pretty  to  spend. 

"Safe  bind,  safe  find,"  said  Griffiths  in  the 
treaty  port. 

He  never  really  began  to  lock  things  up 
severely  till  we  got  our  passports  to  travel  up- 
countr}r.  He  took  charge  of  mine  for  me,  on 
the  ground  that  I  was  an  imbecile.  As  you 
are  asked  for  your  passport  at  every  other 
shop,  all  the  hotels,  most  of  the  places  of 
[68] 


GRIFFITHS  THE  SAFE  MAN 

amusement,  and  on  the  top  of  each  hill,  I  got 
to  appreciate  Griffiths'  self-sacrifice.  He 
would  be  biting  a  strap  with  his  teeth  or  cal- 
culating the  combinations  of  his  padlocks 
among  a  ring  of  admiring  Japanese  while  I 
went  for  a  walk  into  the  interior. 

"Safe  bind,  safe  find,"  said  Griffiths.  That 
was  true,  because  I  was  bound  to  find  Griffiths 
somewhere  near  his  beloved  keys  and  straps. 
He  never  seemed  to  see  that  half  the  pleasure 
of  his  trip  was  being  strapped  and  keyed  out 
of  him. 

We  never  had  any  serious  difficulty  about 
the  passports  in  the  whole  course  of  our  wan- 
derings. What  I  purpose  to  describe  now  is 
merely  an  incident  of  travel.  It  had  no  effect 
on  myself,  but  it  nearly  broke  Griffiths'  heart. 

We  were  travelling  from  Kyoto  to  Otsu 
along  a  very  dusty  road  full  of  pretty  girls. 
Every  time  I  stopped  to  play  with  one  of  them 
Griffiths  grew  impatient.  He  had  telegraphed 
for  rooms  at  the  only  hotel  in  Otsu,  and  was 
afraid  that  there  would  be  no  accommodation. 
There  were  only  three  rooms  in  the  hotel,  and 
[69] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


"Safe  bind,  safe  find,"  said  Griffiths.  He  was 
telegraphing  ahead  for  something. 

Our  hotel  was  three-quarters  Japanese  and 
one-quarter  European.  If  you  walked  across 
it  it  shook,  and  if  you  laughed  the  roof  fell 
off.  Strange  Japanese  came  in  and  dined 
with  you,  and  Jap  maidens  looked  through  the 
windows  of  the  bathroom  while  you  were 
bathing. 

We  had  hardly  put  the  luggage  down  before 
the  proprietor  asked  for  our  passports.  He 
asked  me  of  all  people  in  the  world.  "I  have 
the  passports,"  said  Griffiths  with  pride. 
"They  are  in  the  yellow-hide  bag.  Turn  it 
very  carefully  on  to  the  right  side,  my  good 
man.  You  have  no  such  locks  in  Japan,  I'm 
quite  certain."  Then  he  knelt  down  and 
brought  out  a  bunch  of  keys  as  big  as  his 
fist.  You  must  know  that  every  Japanese 
carries  a  little  belaiti-made  handbag  with  nickel 
fastenings.  They  take  an  interest  in  hand- 
bags. 

"Safe  bind,  safe         D — n  the  key!  What's 

wrong  with  it?"  said  Griffiths. 

[70] 


GRIFFITHS  THE  SAFE  MAN 


The  hotel  proprietor  bowed  and  smiled  very 
politely  for  at  least  five  minutes,  Griffiths 
crawling  over  and  under  and  round  and  about 
his  bag  the  while.  "It's  a  percussating  com- 
pensator," said  he,  half  to  himself.  "I've  never 
known  a  percussating  compensator  do  this 
before."  He  was  getting  heated  and  red  in 
the  face. 

"Key  stuck,  eh?  I  told  you  those  fooling 
little  spring  locks  are  sure  to  go  wrong  sooner 
or  later." 

"Fooling  little  devils.    It's  a  percussating 

comp          There  goes  the  key.   Now  it  won't 

move  either  way.  I'll  give  you  the  passport 
to-morrow.  Passport  kul  demang  manana — 
catchee  in  a  little  time.    Won't  that  do  for 

you?" 

Griffiths  was  getting  really  angry.  The  pro- 
prietor was  more  polite  than  ever.  He  bowed 
and  left  the  room.  "That's  a  good  little  chap," 
said  Griffiths.  "Now  we'll  settle  down  and  see 
what  the  mischief's  wrong  with  this  bag.  You 
catch  one  end." 

"Not  in  the  least,"  I  said.  "  'Safe  bind,  safe 
[71] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

find.'  You  did  the  binding.  How  can  you 
expect  me  to  do  the  finding?  I'm  an  imbecile 
unfit  to  be  trusted  with  a  passport,  and  now 
I'm  going  for  a  walk."  The  Japanese  are 
really  the  politest  nation  in  the  world.  When 
the  hotel  proprietor  returned  with  a  policeman 
he  did  not  at  once  thrust  the  man  on  Griffiths' 
notice.  He  put  him  in  the  verandah  and  let 
him  clank  his  sword  gently  once  or  twice. 

"Little  chap's  brought  a  blacksmith,"  said 
Griffiths,  but  when  he  saw  the  policeman  his 
face  became  ugly.  The  policeman  came  into 
the  room  and  tried  to  assist.  Have  you  ever 
seen  a  four-foot  policeman  in  white  cotton 
gloves  and  a  stand-up  collar  lunging  percus- 
sating  compensator  look  with  a  five-foot 
sword?  I  enjoyed  the  sight  for  a  few  minutes 
before  I  went  out  to  look  at  Otsu,  which  is  a 
nice  town.  No  one  hindered  me.  Griffiths  was 
so  completely  the  head  of  the  firm  that  had  I 
set  the  town  on  fire  he  would  have  been  held 
responsible. 

I  went  to  a  temple,  and  a  policeman  said 
"passport."  I  said,  "The  other  gentleman  has 
[72] 


GRIFFITHS  THE  SAFE  MAN 

got."  "Where  is  other  gentleman?"  said  the 
policeman,  syllable  by  syllable,  in  the  Ollen- 
dorfian  style.  "In  the  ho-tel,"  said  I ;  and  he 
waddled  off  to  catch  him.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  I  could  do  a  great  deal  towards  cheering 
Griffiths  all  alone  in  his  bedroom  with  that 
wicked  bad  lock,  the  hotel  proprietor,  the 
policeman,  the  room-boy,  and  the  girl  who 
helped  one  to  bathe.  With  this  idea  I  stood  in 
front  of  four  policemen,  and  they  all  asked  for 
my  passport  and  were  all  sent  to  the  hotel, 
syllable  by  syllable — I  mean  one  by  one. 

Some  soldiers  of  the  9th  N.  I.  were  strolling 
about  the  streets,  and  they  were  idle.  It  is 
unwise  to  let  a  soldier  be  idle.  He  may  get 
drunk.  When  the  fourth  policeman  said: 
"Where  is  other  gentleman?"  I  said:  "In  the 
hotel,  and  take  soldiers — those  soldiers." 

"How  many  soldiers?"  said  the  policeman 
firmly. 

"Take  all  soldiers,"  I  said.  There  were  four 
files  in  the  street  just  then.    The  policeman 
spoke  to  them,  and  they  caught  up  their  big 
[73] 


ABAFT  THE  FUXXEL 

sword-bayonets,  nearly  as  long  as  themselves, 
and  waddled  after  him. 

I  followed  them,  but  first  I  bought  some 
sweets  and  gave  one  to  a  child.  That  was 
enough.  Long  before  I  had  reached  the  hotel 
I  had  a  tail  of  fifty  babies.  These  I  seduced 
into  the  long  passage  that  ran  through  the 
house,  and  then  I  slid  the  grating  that  answers 
to  the  big  hall-door.  That  house  was  full — 
pit,  boxes  and  galleries — for  Griffiths  had  cre- 
ated an  audience  of  his  own,  and  I  also  had  not 
been  idle. 

The  four  files  of  soldiers  and  the  five  police- 
men were  marking  time  on  the  boards  of 
Griffith's  room,  while  the  landlord  and  the 
landlord's  wife,  and  the  two  scullions,  and  the 
bath-girl,  and  the  cook-boy,  and  the  boy  who 
spoke  English,  and  the  boy  who  didn't,  and  the 
boy  who  tried  to,  and  the  cook,  filled  all  the 
space  that  wasn't  devoted  to  babies  asking  the 
foreigner  for  more  sweets. 

Somewhere  in  the  centre  of  the  mess  was 
Griffiths  and  a  yellow-hide  bag.  I  don't  think 
he  had  looked  up  once  since  I  left,  for  as  he 
[71] 


GRIFFITHS  THE  SAFE  MAN 

raised  his  eyes  at  my  voice  I  heard  him  cry: 
"Good  heavens!  are  they  going  to  train  the 
guns  of  the  city  on  me?  What's  the  meaning 
of  the  regiment?  I'm  a  British  subject." 

"What  are  you  looking  for?"  I  asked. 

"The  passports — your  passports — the  dou- 
ble-dyed passports!  Oh,  give  a  man  room  to 
use  his  arms.   Get  me  a  hatchet." 

"The  passports,  the  passports!"  I  said. 
"Have  you  looked  in  your  great-coat?  It's  on 
the  bed,  and  there's  a  blue  envelope  in  it  that 
looks  like  a  passport.  You  put  it  there  before 
you  left  Kyoto." 

Griffiths  looked.  The  landlord  looked.  The 
landlord  took  the  passport  and  bowed.  The 
five  policemen  bowed  and  went  out  one  by  one ; 
the  9th  N.  I.  formed  fours  and  went  out;  the 
household  bowed,  and  there  was  a  long  silence. 
Then  the  bath-girl  began  to  giggle. 

When  Griffiths  wanted  to  speak  to  me  I  was 
on  the  other  side  of  the  regiment  of  children 
in  the  passage,  and  he  had  time  to  reflect  before 
he  could  work  his  way  through  them. 
[75] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


They  formed  his  guard-of-honour  when  he 
took  the  bag  to  the  locksmith. 

I  abode  on  the  mountains  of  Otsu  till  dinner- 
time. 

t 


[76] 


IT  I* 


HERE  was  no  talk  of  it  for  a  fortnight. 


We  spoke  of  latitude  and  longitude 


and  the  proper  manufacture  of  sherry- 


cobblers,  while  the  steamer  cut  open  a 
glassy-smooth  sea.  Then  we  turned  towards 
China  and  drank  farewell  to  the  nearer  East. 

"We  shall  reach  Hongkong  without  being 
it,"  said  the  nervous  lady. 

"Nobody  of  ordinary  strength  of  mind  ever 
was  it,"  said  the  big  fat  man  with  the  voice. 
I  kept  my  eye  on  the  big  fat  man.  He  boasted 
too  much. 

The  China  seas  are  governed  neither  by  wind 
nor  calm.  Deep  down  under  the  sapphire 
waters  sits  a  green  and  yellow  devil  who  suffers 
from  indigestion  perpetually.  When  he  is  un- 
well he  troubles  the  waters  above  with  his  twist- 

♦"Turnovers,"  Vol.  I. 


[77] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

ings  and  writhings.  Thus  it  happens  that  it 
is  never  calm  in  the  China  seas. 

The  sun  was  shining  brightly  when  the  big 
fat  man  with  the  voice  came  up  the  companion 
and  looked  at  the  horizon. 

"Hah!"  said  he,  "calm  as  ditch  water!  Now 
I  remember  when  I  was  in  the  Florida  in  '80, 
meeting  a  tidal-wave  that  turned  us  upside 
down  for  live  minutes,  and  most  of  the  people 
inside  out,  by  Jove!"  He  expatiated  at  length 
on  the  heroism  displayed  by  himself  when 
"even  the  Captain  was  down,  sir!" 

I  said  nothing,  but  I  kept  my  eyes  upon  the 
strong  man. 

The  sun  continued  to  shine  brightly,  and  it 
also  kept  an  eye  in  the  same  direction.  I  went 
to  the  far-off  fo'c'sle,  where  the  sheep  and  the 
cow  and  the  bo'sun  and  the  second-class  pas- 
sengers dwell  together  in  amity.  "Bo'sun," 
said  I,  "how's  her  head?" 

"Direckly  in  front  of  her,  sir,"  replied  that 
ill-mannered  soul,  "but  we  shall  be  meetin'  a 
head-sea  in  half  an  hour  that'll  put  your  head 
[78] 


IT! 


atween  of  your  legs.  Go  aft  an'  tell  that  to 
them  first-class  passengers." 

I  went  aft,  but  I  said  nothing.  We  went, 
later,  to  tiffin,  and  there  was  a  fine  funereal 
smell  of  stale  curries  and  tinned  meats  in  the 
air.  Conversation  was  animated,  for  most  of 
the  passengers  had  been  together  for  five  weeks 
and  had  developed  two  or  three  promising  flir- 
tations. I  was  a  stranger — a  minnow  among 
Tritons — a  third  man  in  the  cabin.  Only  those 
who  have  been  a  third  man  in  the  cabin  know 
what  this  means.  Suddenly  and  without  warn- 
ing our  ship  curtsied.  It  was  neither  a  bob 
nor  a  duck  nor  a  lurch,  but  a  long,  sweeping, 
stately  old-fashioned  curtsy.  Followed  a  lull 
in  the  conversation.  I  was  distinctly  conscious 
that  I  had  left  my  stomach  two  feet  in  the  air, 
and  waited  for  the  return  roll  to  join  it. 
"Prettily  the  old  hooper  rides,  doesn't  she?" 
said  the  strong  man.  "I  hope  she  won't  do  it 
often,"  said  the  pretty  lady  with  the  changing 
complexion. 

"Wha-hoop !  Wha  —  wha  —  wha  —  willy 
whoop!"  said  the  screw,  that  had  managed  to 
[79] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


come  out  of  the  water  and  was  racing  wildly. 

"Good  heavens!  is  the  ship  going  down?" 
said  the  fat  lady,  clutching  her  own  private 
claret  hottle  that  she  might  not  die  athirst.  The 
ship  went  down  at  the  word — with  a  drunken 
lurch  down  she  went,  and  a  smothered  yell 
from  one  of  the  cahins  showed  that  there  was 
water  in  the  sea.  The  portholes  closed  with  a 
clash,  and  we  rose  and  fell  on  the  swell  of  the 
ho'sun's  head-sea.  The  conversation  died  out. 
Some  complained  that  the  saloon  was  stuffy, 
and  fled  upstairs  to  the  deck.  The  strong  man 
brought  op  the  rear. 

"Ooshy  —  ooshy  —  wooshy — woggle  wop!" 
cried  a  big  wave  without  a  head.  "Get  up,  old 
girl!"  and  he  smacked  the  ship  most  disre- 
spectfully under  the  counter,  and  she  squirmed 
as  she  took  the  drift  of  the  next  sea. 

"She — ah — rides  very  prettily,"  repeated  the 
strong  man  as  the  companion  stairs  spurned 
him  from  them  and  he  wound  his  arms  round 
the  nearest  steward. 

"Damn  prettily,"  said  the  necked  officer. 
[80] 


IT! 


'Tin  going  to  lie  down.  Never  could  stand 
the  China  seas." 

"Most  refreshing  thing  in  the  world,"  said 

the  si  rang  man  faintly. 

I  took  counsel  purely  with  myself,  which  is 
to  say,  my  stomach,  and  perceived  that  the 
worst  would  not  hef'all  me. 

"Come  to  the  tb'c'sle,  then,  and  feel  the 
wind,"  said  1  to  the  strong  man.  The  plover's- 
egg  eyes  of  three  yellowish-green  girls  were 
upon  him. 

"With  pleasure,"  said  he,  and  I  bore  him 
away  to  where  the  cut-water  was  pulling  up 
the  scared  flying-fishes  as  a  spaniel  flushes 
game.  In  front  of  ns  was  the  illimitable  blue, 
lightly  ridged  by  the  procession  of  the  big  blind 
rollers,  t'p  rose  the  stem  till  six  feet  of  the 
red  paint  stood  clear  above  the  blue — from 
twenty-three  feet  to  eighteen  1  could  count  as 
I  leaned  over.    Then  the  sapphire  crashed  into 

splintered  crystal  with  a  musical  jar.  and  the 

white  spray  licked  the  anchor  channels  as  we 
drove  down  and  down,  sucking  at  the  sea.  1 
kept  my  eve  upon  the  strong  man,  and  I  no- 
[SI] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

ticed  that  his  mouth  was  slightly  open,  the 
better  to  inhale  the  rushing  wind.  When  I 
looked  a  second  time  he  was  gone.  The  driven 
spray  was  scarcely  quicker  in  its  flight.  My 
excellent  stomach  behaved  with  temperance 
and  chastity.  I  enjoyed  the  fo'c'sle,  and  my 
delight  was  the  greater  when  I  reflected  on  the 
strong  man.  Unless  I  was  much  mistaken,  he 
would  know  all  about  it  in  half  an  hour. 

I  went  aft,  and  a  lull  between  two  waves 
heard  the  petulant  pop  of  a  champagne  cork. 
No  one  drinks  champagne  after  tiffin  except 
.    .    .  It. 

The  strong  man  had  ordered  the  cham- 
pagne. There  were  bottles  of  it  flying  about 
the  quarter-deck.  The  engaged  couple  were 
sipping  it  out  of  one  glass,  but  their  faces  were 
averted  like  our  parents  of  old.  They  were 
ashamed. 

"You  may  go!  You  may  go  to  Hongkong 
for  me!"  shouted  half-a-dozen  little  waves  to- 
gether, pulling  the  ship  several  ways  at  once. 
She  rolled  stately,  and  from  that  moment  set- 
tled down  to  the  work  of  the  evening.  I  cannot 
[82] 


IT! 


blame  her,  for  I  am  sure  she  did  not  know  her 
own  strength.  It  didn't  hurt  her  to  be  on  her 
side,  and  play  cat-and-mouse,  and  puss-in-the 
corner,  and  hide-and-seek,  but  it  destroj^ed  the 
passengers.  One  by  one  they  sank  into  long 
chairs  and  gazed  at  the  sky.  But  even  there 
the  little  white  moved,  and  there  was  not  one 
stable  thing  in  heaven  above  or  the  waters  be- 
neath. My  virtuous  and  very  respectable 
stomach  behaved  with  integrity  and  resolution. 
I  treated  it  to  a  gin  cocktail,  which  I  sucked 
by  the  side  of  the  strong  man,  who  told  me  in 
confidence  that  he  had  been  overcome  by  the 
sun  at  the  fo'c'sle.  Sun  fever  does  not  make 
people  cold  and  clammy  and  blue.  I  sat  with 
him  and  tried  to  make  him  talk  about  the 
Florida  and  his  voyages  in  the  past.  He 
evaded  me  and  went  down  below.  Three  min- 
utes later  I  followed  him  with  a  thick  cheroot. 
Into  his  bunk  I  went,  for  I  knew  he  would  be 
helpless.  He  was — he  was — he  was.  He  wal- 
lowed supine,  and  I  stood  in  the  doorway 
smoking. 

"What  is  it?"  said  I. 

[83] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


He  wrestled  with  his  pride — his  wicked 
pride — but  he  would  not  tell  a  lie. 
"It,"  said  he.   And  it  was  so. 

****** 

The  rolling  continues.  The  ship  is  a  sham- 
bles, and  I  have  six  places  on  each  side  of  me 
all  to  myself. 


[84] 


A  FALLEN  IDOL* 


ILL  the  public  be  good  enough  to 
look  into  this  business?  It  has 
sent  Crewe  to  bed,  and  Mottleby 
is  applying  for  home  leave,  and 


I've  lost  my  faith  in  man  altogether,  and  the 
Club  gives  it  up.  Trivey  is  the  only  man  who 
is  unaffected  by  the  catastrophe,  and  he  says 
"I  told  you  so."  We  were  all  proud  of  Trivey 
at  the  Club,  and  would  have  crowned  him  with 
wreaths  of  Bougainvillea  had  he  permitted  the 
liberty.  But  Trivey  was  an  austere  man.  The 
utmost  that  he  permitted  himself  to  say  was: 
"I  can  stretch  a  little  bit  when  I'm  in  the 
humour."  We  called  him  the  Monumental 
Liar.  Nothing  that  the  Club  offered  was  too 
good  for  Trivey.  He  had  the  soft  chair  oppo- 
site the  thermantidote  in  the  hot  weather,  and 


'"Turnovers,"  Vol.  I. 

[85] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

he  made  up  his  own  four  at  whist.  When  visi- 
tors came  in — globe-trotters  for  choice — 
Trivey  used  to  unmuzzle  himself  and  tell 
tales  that  sent  the  globe-trotter  out  of  the  Club 
on  tiptoe  looking  for  snakes  in  his  hat  and 
tigers  in  the  compound.  Whenever  a  man 
from  a  strange  Club  came  in  Trivey  used  to 
call  for  a  whisky  and  ginger- wine  and  rout  that 
man  on  all  points — from  horses  upward. 
There  was  a  man  whose  nickname  was 
"Ananias,"  who  came  from  the  Prince's 
Plungers  to  look  at  Trivey;  and,  though 
Trivey  was  only  a  civilian,  the  Plunger  man 
resigned  his  title  to  the  nickname  before  eleven 
o'clock.  He  made  it  over  to  Trivey  on  a  card, 
and  Trivey  hung  up  the  concession  in  his  quar- 
ters. We  loved  Trivey — all  of  us;  and  now 
we  don't  love  him  any  more. 

A  man  from  the  frontier  came  in  and  began 
to  tell  tales — some  very  good  ones,  and  some 
better  than  good.  He  was  an  outsider,  but  he 
had  a  wonderful  imagination — for  the  frontier. 
He  told  six  stories  before  Trivey  brought  up 
[86] 


A  FALLEN  IDOL 

his  first  line,  and  three  more  before  Trivey 
hurled  his  reserves  into  the  fray. 

"When  I  was  at  Anungaracharlupillay  in 
Madras,"  said  Trivey  quietly,  "there  was  a 
rogue  elephant  cutting  about  the  district.  And 
I  came  upon  him  asleep."  All  the  Club 
stopped  talking  here,  until  Trivey  had  finished 
the  story.  He  told  us  that  he,  in  the  company 
of  another  man,  had  found  the  rogue  asleep, 
but  just  as  they  got  up  to  the  brute's  head  it 
woke  up  with  a  scream.  Then  Trivey,  who 
was  careful  to  explain  that  he  was  a  "bit  pow- 
erful about  the  arms,"  caught  hold  of  its  ears  as 
it  rose,  and  hung  there,  kicking  the  animal  in 
the  eyes,  which  so  bewildered  it  that  it  stayed 
screaming  and  frightened  until  Trivey's  ally 
shot  it  behind  the  shoulder,  and  the  villagers 
ran  in  and  hamstrung  it.  It  evidently  died 
from  loss  of  blood.  Trivey  was  hanging  on  the 
ears  and  kicking  hard  for  nearly  fifteen  min- 
utes. When  the  frontier  man  heard  the  story 
he  put  his  hands  in  front  of  his  face  and  sobbed 
audibly.  We  gave  him  all  the  drinks  he  want- 
ed, and  he  recovered  sufficiently  to  carry  away 
[87] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

eighty  rupees  at  whist  later  on;  but  his  nerve 
was  irretrievably  shattered.  He  will  be  no 
use  on  the  frontier  any  more.  The  rest  of  the 
Club  were  very  pleased  with  Trivey,  because 
these  frontier  men,  and  especially  the  guides, 
want  a  great  deal  of  keeping  in  order.  Trivey 
wras  quite  modest.  He  was  a  truly  great  soul, 
and  popular  applause  never  turned  his  head. 
As  I  have  said,  we  loved  Trivey,  till  that  fatal 
day  when  Crewe  announced  that  he  had  been 
transferred  for  a  couple  of  months  to  Anun- 
garacharlupillay.  "Oh!"  said  Trivey,  "I  dare 
say  they'll  remember  about  my  rogue  elephant 
down  there.  You  ask  'em,  Crewe."  Then  we 
felt  sorry  for  Trivey,  because  we  were  sure  that 
he  was  arriving  at  that  stage  of  mental  decay 
when  a  man  begins  to  believe  in  his  own  fic- 
tions. That  spoils  a  man's  hand.  Crewe  wrote 
up  once  or  twice  to  Mottleby,  saying  that  he 
would  bring  back  a  story  that  would  make  our 
hair  curl.  Good  stories  are  scarce  in  Madras, 
and  we  rather  scoffed  at  the  announcement. 
When  Crewe  returned  it  was  easy  to  see  that 
he  was  bursting  with  importance.  He  gave  a 
[88] 


A  FALLEN  IDOL 

big  dinner  at  the  Club  and  invited  nearly  every- 
body but  Trivey,  who  went  off  after  dinner  to 
teach  a  young  subaltern  to  play  "snooker."  At 
coffee  and  cheroots,  Crewe  could  not  restrain 
himself  any  longer.  "I  say,  you  Johnnies,  it's 
all  true — every  single  word  of  it — and  you  can 
throw  the  decanter  at  my  head  and  I'll  apolo- 
gise. The  whole  village  was  full  of  it.  There 
was  a  rogue  elephant,  and  it  slept,  and  Trivey 
did  catch  hold  of  its  ears  and  kick  it  in  the 
eyes,  and  hang  on  for  ten  minutes,  at  least, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it.  I  neglected  my  regular 
work  to  sift  that  story,  and  on  my  honour  the 
tale's  an  absolute  fact.  The  headsman  said 
so,  all  the  shikaries  said  so,  and  all  the  villages 
corroborated  it.  Now  would  a  whole  village 
volunteer  a  lie  that  would  do  them  no  good?" 

You  might  have  heard  a  cigar- ash  fall  after 
this  statement.  Then  Mottleby  said,  with  deep 
disgust:  "What  can  you  do  with  a  man 
like  that?  His  best  and  brightest  lie, 
too!"  "'Tisn't!"  shrieked  Crewe.  "It's 
a  fact — a  nickel-plated,  teak- wood,  Tantalus- 
action,  forty-five  rupee  fact."  "That  only 
[89] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

makes  it  worse,"  said  Mottleby;  and  we  all 
felt  that  was  true.  We  ran  into  the  billiard- 
room  to  talk  to  Trivey,  but  he  said  we  had  put 
him  off  his  stroke;  and  that  was  all  the  satis- 
faction we  got  out  of  him.  Later  on  he  re- 
peated that  he  was  a  "bit  powerful  about  the 
arms,"  and  went  to  bed.  We  sat  up  half  the 
night  devising  vengeance  on  Trivey.  We  were 
very  angry,  and  there  was  no  hope  of  hushing 
up  the  tale.  The  man  had  taken  us  in  com- 
pletely, and  now  that  we've  lost  our  champion 
Ananias,  all  the  frontier  will  laugh  at  us,  and 
we  shall  never  be  able  to  trust  a  word  that 
Trivey  says. 

I  ask  with  Mottleby:  "What  can  you  do 
with  a  man  like  that?" 


[90] 


NEW  BROOMS* 


"If  seven  maids  with  seven  mops 
Swept  it  for  half  a  year, 
Do  you  suppose,"  the  Walrus  said, 
"That  they  could  sweep  it  clear  ?" 

RAM  BUKSH,  Aryan,  went  to  bed 
with  his  buffalo,  five  goats,  three 
children  and  a  wife,  because  the  eve- 
ning mists  were  chilly.   His  hut  was 
builded  on  the  mud  scooped  from  a  green  and 
smelly  tank,  and  there  were  microbes  in  the 
thin  blood  of  Ram  Buksh. 

Ram  Buksh  went  to  bed  on  a  charpoy 
stretched  across  the  blue  tepid  drain,  because 
the  nights  were  hot;  and  there  were  more 
microbes  in  his  blood.  Then  the  rains  came, 
and  Ram  Buksh  paddled,  mid-thigh  deep,  in 
water  for  a  day  or  two  with  his  buffaloes  till 


""Turnovers,"  Vol.  III. 

[91] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

he  was  aware  of  a  crampsome  feeling  at  the 
pit  of  his  stomach.  "Mother  of  my  children," 
said  Ram  Buksh,  "this  is  death."  They  gave 
him  cardamoms  and  capsicums,  and  gingelly- 
oil  and  cloves,  and  they  prayed  for  him.  "It 
is  enough,"  said  Ram  Buksh,  and  he  twisted 
himself  into  a  knot  and  died,  and  they  burned 
him  slightly — for  the  wood  was  damp — 
and  the  rest  of  him  floated  down  the  river, 
and  was  caught  in  an  undercurrent  at  the  bank, 
and  there  stayed;  and  when  Imam  Din,  the 
Jeweller,  drank  of  the  stream  five  days  later, 
he  drank  Lethe,  and  passed  away,  crying  in 
vain  upon  his  gods. 

His  family  did  not  report  his  death  to 
the  Municipality,  for  they  desired  to  keep 
Imam  Din  with  them.  Therefore,  they 
buried  him  under  the  flagging  in  the  court- 
yard, secretly  and  by  night.  Twelve  days 
later,  Imam  Din  had  made  connection  with 
the  well  of  the  house,  and  there  was  typhus 
among  the  women  in  the  zenana,  but  no  one 
knew  anything  about  it — some  died  and  some 
did  not;  and  Ari  Booj,  the  Faquir,  added  to 
[92] 


NEW  BROOMS 

the  interest  of  the  proceedings  by  joining  the 
funeral  procession  and  distributing  gratis  the 
more  malignant  forms  of  smallpox,  from  which 
he  was  just  recovering.  He  had  come  all  the 
way  from  Delhi,  and  had  slept  on  no  less  than 
fifteen  different  charpoys;  and  that  was  how 
they  got  the  smallpox  into  Bahadurgarh.  But 
Eshmith  Sahib's  Dhobi  picked  it  up  from  Ari 
Booj  when  Jmam  Din's  wife  was  being  buried 
— for  he  was  a  merry  man,  and  sent  home  a 
beautiful  sample  among  the  Sunday  shirts.  So 
Eshmith  Sahib  died. 

He  was  only  a  link  in  the  chain  which 
crawled  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest. 
The  wonder  was  not  that  men  died  like  sheep, 
but  that  they  did  not  die  like  flies;  for  their 
lives  and  their  surroundings,  their  deaths, 
were  part  of  a  huge  conspiracy  against  clean- 
liness. And  the  people  loved  to  have  it  so. 
They  huddled  together  in  frowsy  clusters, 
while  Death  mowed  his  way  through  them  till 
the  scythe  blunted  against  the  unresisting  flesh, 
and  he  had  to  get  a  new  one.  They  died  by 
fever,  tens  of  thousands  in  a  month;  they  died 
[93] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

by  cholera  a  thousand  in  a  week;  they  died  of 
smallpox,  scores  in  the  mohulla,  and  by  dysen- 
tery by  tens  in  a  house;  and  when  all  other 
deaths  failed  they  laid  them  down  and  died 
because  their  hands  were  too  weak  to  hold  on 
to  life. 

To  and  fro  stamped  the  Englishman,  who  is 
everlastingly  at  war  with  the  scheme  of  things. 
"You  shall  not  die,"  he  said,  and  he  decreed 
that  there  should  be  no  more  famines.  He 
poured  grain  down  their  throats,  and  when  all 
failed  he  went  down  into  the  strife  and  died 
with  them,  swearing,  and  toiling,  and  working 
till  the  last.  He  fought  the  famine  and  put  it 
to  flight.  Then  he  wiped  his  forehead,  and 
attacked  the  pestilence  that  walketh  in  the 
darkness.  Death's  scythe  swept  to  and  fro, 
around  and  about  him ;  but  he  only  planted  his 
feet  more  firmly  in  the  way  of  it,  and  fought 
off  Death  with  a  dog-whip.  "Live,  you  ruf- 
fian!" said  the  Englishman  to  Ram  Buksh  as 
he  rode  through  the  reeking  village.  "Jendb!" 
said  Ram  Buksh,  "it  is  as  it  was  in  the  days  of 
our  fathers!"  "Then  stand  back  while  I  alter 
[94] 


NEW  BROOMS 


it,"  said  the  Englishman;  and  by  force,  and 
cunning,  and  a  brutal  disregard  of  vested  in- 
terests, he  strove  to  keep  Ram  Buksh  alive. 
"Clean  your  mohullas;  pay  for  clean  water; 
keep  your  streets  swept;  and  see  that  your 
food  is  sound,  or  I'll  make  your  life  a  burden 
to  you,"  said  the  Englishman.  Sometimes  he 
died;  but  more  often  Ram  Buksh  went  down, 
and  the  Englishman  regarded  each  death  as  a 
personal  insult. 

"Softly,  there!"  said  the  Government  of 
India.  "You're  twisting  his  tail.  You  mustn't 
do  that.  The  spread  of  education  forbids,  and 
Ram  Buksh  is  an  intelligent  voter.  Let  him 
work  out  his  own  salvation." 

"H'm!"  said  the  Englishman  with  his  head 
in  a  midden;  "collectively  you  always  were  a 
fool.  Here,  Ram  Buksh,  the  Sirkar  says  you 
are  to  do  all  these  things  for  yourself." 

"Jendb!"  says  Ram  Buksh,  and  fell  to 
breeding  microbes  with  renewed  vigour. 

Curiously  enough,  it  was  in  the  centres  of 
enlightenment  that  he  prosecuted  his  experi- 
ments most  energetically.  The  education  had 
[95] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


been  spread,  but  so  thinly  that  it  could  not 
disguise  Ram  Buksh's  natural  instincts.  He 
created  an  African  village,  and  said  it  was 
the  hub  of  the  universe,  and  all  the  dirt  of  all 
the  roads  failed  to  convince  him  that  he  was 
not  the  most  advanced  person  in  the  world. 
There  was  a  pause,  and  Ram  Buksh  got  him- 
self fearfully  entangled  among  Boards  and 
Committees,  but  he  valued  them  as  a  bower- 
bird  values  shells  and  red  rags.  "See!"  said 
the  Englishman  to  the  Government  of  India, 
"he  is  blind  on  that  side — blind  by  birth,  train- 
ing, instinct  and  associations.  Five-sixths  of 
him  is  poor  stock  raised  off  poor  soil,  and  he'll 
die  on  the  least  provocation.  You've  no  right 
to  let  him  kill  himself." 

"But  he's  educated,"  said  the  Government 
of  India. 

'I'll  concede  everything,"  said  the  English- 
man. "He's  a  statesman,  author,  poet,  politi- 
cian, artist,  and  all  else  that  you  wish  him  to 
be,  but  he  isn't  a  Sanitary  Engineer.  And 
while  you're  training  him  he  is  dying.  Good- 
ness knows  that  my  share  in  the  Government 
'  [90] 


NEW  BROOMS 

is  very  limited  nowadays,  but  I'm  willing  to 
do  all  the  work  while  he  gets  all  the  credit  if 
you'll  only  let  me  have  some  authority  over 
him  in  his  mud-pie  making." 

"But  the  liberty  of  the  subject  is  sacred," 
said  the  Government  of  India. 

"I  haven't  any,"  said  the  Englishman.  "He 
can  trail  through  my  compounds ;  start  shrines 
in  the  public  roads;  poison  my  family;  have 
me  in  court  for  nothing;  ruin  my  character; 
spend  my  money,  and  call  me  an  assassin  when 
all  is  done.  I  don't  object.  Let  me  look  after 
his  sanitation." 

"But  the  days  of  a  paternal  Government  are 
over;  we  must  depend  on  the  people.  Think 
of  what  they  would  say  at  home,"  said  the 
Government  of  India.  "We  have  issued  a  reso- 
lution— indeed  we  have!" 

The  Englishman  sat  down  and  groaned.  "I 
believe  you'll  issue  a  resolution  some  day  noti- 
fying your  own  abolition,"  said  he.  "What 
are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Constitute  more  Boards,"  said  the  Govern- 
ment of  India.  "Boards  of  Control  and  Super- 
[97] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


vision — Fund  Boards — all  sorts  of  Boards. 
Nothing  like  system.  It  will  be  at  work  in 
three  years  or  so.  We  haven't  any  money, 
but  that's  a  detail." 

The  Englishman  looked  at  the  resolution 
and  sniffed.  "It  doesn't  touch  the  weak  point 
of  the  country." 

"What  will  touch  the  weak  point  of  the 
country,  then?"  said  the  Government  of  India. 

"I  used  to,"  said  the  Englishman.  "I 
was  the  District  Officer,  and  I  twisted  their 
tails.  You  have  taken  away  my  power,  and 
now  " 

"Well,"  said  the  Government  of  India,  "you 
seem  to  think  a  good  deal  of  yourself." 

"Never  mind  me,"  said  the  Englishman. 
"I'm  an  effete  relic  of  the  past.  But  Ram 
Buksh  will  die,  as  he  used  to  do." 

And  now  we  all  wait  to  see  which  is  right. 


[98] 


TIGLATH  PILESER* 
HANK  Heaven  he  is  dead!  The 


municipality  sent  a  cart  and  a  man 
only  this  morning,  and,  all  the  serv- 
ants aiding  with  ropes  and  tackle,  the 


carcase  of  Tiglath  was  borne  away — a  wob- 
bling lump.  His  head  was  thrust  over  the  tail- 
board of  the  cart.  Upon  it  was  stamped  an 
expression  of  horror  and  surprise,  unutterable 
and  grotesque.  I  have  put  away  my  rifle,  I 
have  cheered  my  heart  with  wine,  and  I  sit 
down  now  to  write  the  story  of  Tiglath,  the 
Utter  Brute.  His  own  kind,  alas!  will  not 
read  it,  and  thus  it  will  be  shorn  of  instruction ; 
but  owners  will  kindly  take  notice,  and  when  it 
pleases  Heaven  to  inflict  them  with  such  an 
animal  as  Tiglath  they  will  know  what  to  do. 

To  begin  with,  I  bought  him,  his  vices  thick 
as  his  barsati,  for  a  hundred  and  seventy 


♦"Turnovers,"  Vol.  IV. 

[99] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


rupees,  a  five-chambered,  muzzle-loading  re- 
volver, and  a  Cawnpore  saddle. 

"Of  course,  for  that  price,"  said  Staveley, 
"you  can't  expect  everything.  He's  not  what 
one  would  call  absolutely  sound,  y'  know,  but 
there's  no  end  of  work  in  him,  and  if  you  only 
give  him  the  butt  he'll  go  like  a  steam-engine." 

"Staveley,"  I  answered,  "when  you  admit 
that  he  is  not  perfection  I  perceive  that  I  am 
in  for  a  really  Good  Thing.  Don't  hurt  your 
conscience,  Staveley.  Tell  me  what  is  his 
chief  vice — weakness,  partiality — anything  you 
choose  to  call  it.  I  shall  get  to  know  the  minor 
defects  in  the  course  of  nature;  but  what  is 
Tiglath's  real  shouk?" 

Staveley  reflected  a  moment.  "Well,  really, 
I  can't  quite  say,  old  man,  straight  off  the  reel, 
y'  know.  He's  a  oner  to  go  when  his  head's 
turned  to  home.  He's  a  regular  feeder,  and 
vaseline  will  cure  that  little  eruption" — with 
its  malignant  barsati — "in  no  time.  Oh,  I  for- 
got his  shouk:  I  don't  know  exactly  how  to 
describe  it,  but  he  yaws  a  good  deal,"  said 
Staveley. 

[100] 


TIGLATH  PILESER 

"He  how  muches?"  I  asked. 

"Yaws,"  said  Staveley;  "goes  a  bit  wide 
upon  occasions,  but  a  good  coachwan  will  cure 
that  in  one  drive.  My  man  let  him  do  what 
he  liked.  One  fifty  and  a  hundred,  ten  and  ten 
is  twenty — one-seventy.  Many  thanks,  indeed. 
I'll  send  over  his  bedding  and  ropes.  He's  a 
powerful  upstanding  horse,  though  rather 
picked  up  just  at  present." 

Staveley  departed,  and  I  was  left  alone  with 
Tiglath.  I  called  him  Tiglath  because  he  re- 
sembled a  lathy  pig.  Later  on  I  called  him 
Pileser  on  account  of  his  shouk ;  but  my  coach- 
wan,  a  strong,  masterless  man,  called  him 
"haramzada  chor,  shaitan  ke  bap"  and  "oont  hi 
beta"  He  certainly  was  a  powerful  horse,  be- 
ing full  fifteen-two  at  the  withers,  with  the 
girth  of  a  waler,  and  at  first  the  docility  of  an 
Arab.  There  was  something  wrong  with  his 
feet — permanently — but  he  was  a  considerate 
beast,  and  never  had  more  than  one  leg  in  hos- 
pital at  a  time.  The  other  three  were  still 
movable,  and  Tiglath  never  grudged  them  in 
my  service.  I  write  this  in  justice  to  his  mem- 
[101] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

ory ;  the  creaking  of  the  wheels  of  the  municipal 
cart  being  still  in  my  ears. 

For  a  season — some  twelve  days — Tiglath 
was  beyond  reproach.  He  had  not  a  cheerful 
disposition,  nor  did  his  pendulous  underlip  add 
to  his  personal  beauty;  but  he  made  no  com- 
plaints, and  moved  swiftly  to  and  from  office. 
The  hot  weather  gave  place  to  the  cool  breezes 
of  October,  and  with  the  turn  of  the  year  the 
slumbering  devil  in  the  soul  of  Tiglath  spread 
its  wings  and  crowed  aloud.  I  fed  him  well, 
I  had  aided  his  barsati,  I  had  lapped  his  lame 
legs  in  thanda  putties,  and  adorned  his  sin- 
ful body  with  new  harness.  He  rewarded 
me  upon  a  day  with  an  exhibition  so  new  and 
strange  that  I  feared  for  the  moment  his  reason 
had  been  unhinged.  Slowly,  with  a  malevolent 
grin,  Tiglath,  the  pampered,  turned  at  right 
angles  to  the  carriage — a  newly-varnished  one 
— and  backed  the  front  wheels  up  the  verandah 
steps,  letting  them  down  with  a  bump.  He 
then  wheeled  round  and  round  in  the  portico, 
and  all  but  brought  the  carriage  over.  The 
[102] 


TIGLATH  PILESER 

show  lasted  for  ten  minutes,  at  the  end  of 
which  time  he  trotted  peacefully  away. 

I  was  pained  and  grieved — nothing  more, 
upon  my  honour.  I  forbade  the  sais  to  kick 
Tiglath  in  the  stomach,  for  I  was  persuaded 
that  the  harness  galled  him,  and,  in  this  belief, 
at  the  end  of  the  day,  undressed  him  tenderly 
and  fitted  sheepskin  all  over  the  said  harness. 
Tiglath  ate  the  sheepskin  next  day,  and  I  did 
not  renew  it. 

A  week  later  I  met  the  Judge.  It  was  a 
purely  accidental  interview.  I  would  have 
avoided  it,  as  the  Judge  and  I  did  not  love 
each  other,  but  the  shafts  of  my  carriage  were 
through  the  circular  front  of  his  brougham, 
and  Tiglath  was  rubbing  the  boss  of  his  head- 
stall tenderly  against  the  newly-varnished 
panels  of  the  same.  The  Judge  complained 
that  he  might  have  been  impaled  as  he  sat.  My 
coachwan  declared  on  oath  that  the  horse  de- 
liberately ran  into  the  brougham.  Tiglath  ten- 
dered no  evidence,  and  I  began  to  mistrust  him. 

At  the  end  of  a  month  I  perceived  that  my 
friends  and  acquaintances  avoided  me  marked- 
[103] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

ly.  The  appearance  of  Tiglath  at  the  band- 
stand was  enough  to  clear  a  space  of  ten  yards 
in  my  immediate  neighbourhood.  I  had  to 
shout  to  my  friends  from  afar,  and  they  shout- 
ed back  the  details  of  the  little  bills  which  I 
had  to  pay  their  coach-builders.  Tiglath  was 
suffering  from  carriagecidal  mania,  and  the 
coachwan  had  asked  for  leave.  "Stay  with  me, 
Ibrahim,"  I  said.  "Thou  seest  how  the  sahib 
log  do  now  avoid  us.  Get  a  new  and  a  stout 
chabuq,  and  instruct  Tiglath  in  the  paths  of 
straight  walking." 

"He  will  smash  the  Heaven-born's  carriage. 
He  is  an  old  and  stale  devil,  but  in  this  matter 
extreme  wise,"  answered  Ibrahim.  "Kitto 
sahib's  fllton  hath  he  smashed,  and  Burkitt 
sahib's  brougham  gharri,  and  another  turn- turn, 
and  Staveley  sahib's  carriage  is  still  being 
mended.  What  profit  is  this  horse?  He  feigns 
blindness  and  much  fear,  and  in  the  guise  of 
innocency  works  evil.  I  will  stay,  sahib,  but 
the  blood  of  this  thy  new  carriage  be  upon  the 
brute's  head  and  not  upon  mine  own." 

I  have  no  space  to  describe  the  war  of  the 
[  104] 


TIGLATH  PILESER 

next  few  weeks.  Foiled  in  his  desire  to  ruin 
only  neighbours'  property,  Tiglath  fell  back 
literally,  upon  his  own — my  carriage.  He 
tried  the  verandah  step  trick  till  he  bent  the 
springs,  and  wheeled  round  till  the  turning 
action  grew  red-hot;  he  scraped  stealthily  by 
walls;  he  performed  between  heavy-laden  bul- 
lock-trains, but  his  chief  delight  was  a  pas  de 
fantasie  on  a  dark  night  and  a  high,  level  road. 
Yet  what  he  did  he  did  staidly  and  without 
heat,  as  without  remorse.  He  was  vetted 
thrice,  and  his  eyes  were  pronounced  sound. 
After  this  information  I  laid  my  bones  to  the 
battle,  and  acquired  a  desperate  facility  of 
leaping  from  the  carriage  and  kicking  Tiglath 
on  the  stomach  as  soon  as  he  wheeled  around; 
leaping  back  at  the  risk  of  my  life  when  he 
set  off  at  full  speed.  I  pressed  the  lighted  end 
of  a  cheroot  just  behind  the  collar-buckle;  I 
applied  fusees  to  those  flaccid  nostrils,  and  I 
beat  him  about  the  head  with  a  stick  continu- 
ally. It  was  necessary,  but  it  was  also  de- 
moralising. A  year  of  Tiglath  would  have 
converted  me  into  a  cold-blooded  vivisection- 
[105] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

ist,  or  a  native  bullock-driver.  Each  day  I 
took  stock  of  the  injuries  to  my  carriage.  I 
had  long  since  given  up  all  hope  of  keeping  it 
in  decent  repair;  and  each  day  I  devised  fresh 
torments  for  Tiglath. 

He  never  meant  to  injure  himself,  I  am  cer- 
tain, and  no  one  was  more  astonished  than  he 
when  he  backed  on  the  Balumon  road,  and 
dropped  the  carriage  into  a  nullah  on  the  night 
of  the  Jamabundi  Moguls'  dance.  I  did  not 
go  to  the  dance.  I  was  bent  considerably,  and 
one  side  of  the  coachwan's  face  was  flayed. 
When  he  had  pieced  the  wreck  together,  he 
only  said,  "Sahib!"  and  I  said  only  "Bohat 
acha."  But  we  each  knew  what  the  other 
meant.  Next  morn  Tiglath  was  stiff  and 
strained.  I  gave  him  time  to  recover  and  to 
enjoy  life.  When  I  heard  him  squealing  to  the 
grass-cutter's  ponies  I  knew  that  the  hour  had 
come.  I  ordered  the  carriage,  and  myself  super- 
intended the  funeral  toilet  of  Tiglath.  His 
harness  brasses  shone  like  gold,  his  coat  like 
a  bottle,  and  he  lifted  his  feet  daintily.  Had 
he  even  then,  at  the  eleventh  hour,  given  prom- 
[106] 


TIGLATH  PILESER 

ise  of  amendment,  I  should  have  held  my  hand. 
But  as  I  entered  the  carriage  I  saw  the  hunch- 
ing of  his  quarters  that  presaged  trouble.  "Go 
forward,  Tiglath,  my  love,  my  pride,  my  de- 
light," I  murmured.  "For  a  surety  it  is  a 
matter  of  life  and  death  this  day."  The  sais 
ran  to  his  head  with  a  fragment  of  chupatti, 
saved  from  his  all  too  scanty  rations ;  the  man 
loved  him.  And  Tiglath  swung  round  to  the 
left  in  the  portico;  round  and  round  swung 
he,  till  the  near  ear  touched  the  muzzle  of  the 
shot-gun  that  waited  its  coming.  He  never 
flinched;  he  pressed  his  fate.  The  coachwan 
threw  down  the  reins  as,  with  four  ounces  of 
No.  5  shot  behind  the  hollow  of  the  root  of 
the  ear,  Tiglath  fell.  In  his  death  he  accom- 
plished the  desire  of  his  life,  for  he  fell  upon  the 
shaft  and  broke  it  into  three  pieces.  I  looked 
on  him  as  he  lay,  and  of  a  sudden  the  reason  of 
the  horror  in  his  eyes  was  made  clear.  Tiglath, 
the  breaker  of  carriages,  the  strong,  the  re- 
bellious, had  passed  into  the  shadowy  spirit 
land,  where  there  was  nought  to  destroy  and 
no  power  to  destroy  it  with.  The  ghastly  fore- 
[107] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

knowledge  of  the  flitting  soul  was  written  on 
the  glazing  eyeball. 

I  repented  me,  then,  that  I  had  slain  Tig- 
lath,  for  I  had  no  intention  of  punishing  him 
in  the  hereafter. 


[108] 


THE  LIKES  O'  US* 


IT  was  the  General  Officer  Commanding, 
riding  down  the  Mall,  on  the  Arab  with 
the  perky  tail,  and  he  condescended  to 
explain  some  of  the  mysteries  of  his  pro- 
fession. But  the  point  on  which  he  dwelt  most 
pompously  was  the  ease  with  which  the  Private 
Thomas  Atkins  could  be  "handled,"  as  he 
called  it.  "Only  feed  him  and  give  him  a  little 
work  to  do,  and  you  can  do  anything  with 
him,"  said  the  General  Officer  Commanding. 
"There's  no  refinement  about  Tommy,  you 
know;  and  one  is  very  like  another.  They've 
all  the  same  ideas  and  traditions  and  preju- 
dices. They're  all  big  children.  Fancy  any 
man  in  his  senses  shooting  about  these  hills." 
There  was  the  report  of  a  shot-gun  in  the  val- 
ley.  "I  suppose  they've  hit  a  dog.   Happy  as 


""Week's  News,"  Feb.  4,  1888. 

[109] 


ABAFT  THE  F 


the  day  is  long  when  they're  out  sh« 
Just  like  a  big  child  is  Tommy." 
up  his  horse  and  cantered  away, 
a  sound  of  angry  voices  down  the 

"All  right,  you  soor — I  won't  i 
this — mind  you,  not  as  long  as  I 

'elp  me— I'll  "     The  senter 

in  what  could  be  represented  by 
asterisks. 

A  deeper  voice  cut  it  short:  " 
won't,  neither!     Look  a-here, 
smitcher.    If  I  was  to  take  yer  r 
knock  off  your  'ead  again'  that  tr 
,say  anythin'?    No,  nor  yet  do  a 

I  was  to   Ah!  you  would, 

There!"    Some  one  had  evident] 
with  a  thud,  and  was  swearing  nc 
over  the  edge  of  the  khud}  down 
long  grass,  and  fetched  up,  after 


THE  LIKES  O'  US 

smoke.  My  sudden  arrival  threw  him 
balance  for  a  moment.  Then,  readjust 
chair,  he  bade  me  good-day. 

"  JIm  an'  me  'ave  bin  'avin'  an  arg' 
said  Gunner  Barnabas  placidly.  "I  v 
ing  for  to  half  kill  him  an'  'eave  'im  h 
bushes  'ere,  but,  seem'  that  you  'ave  co] 
and  very  welcome  when  you  do  come,  1 
'ave  a  court-martial  instead.  Shackloi 
you  willin'?"  The  volcano,  who  had  been 
ing  uninterruptedly  through  this  orati 
pressed  a  desire,  in  general  and  pa] 
terms,  to  see  Gunner  Barnabas  in  Torme 
the  "civilian"  on  the  next  gridiron. 

Private  Shacklock  was  a  tow-haired, 
lous  boy  of  about  two-and-twenty.  H 
was  bleeding  profusely,  and  the  live  air  a 
that  he  had  been  drinking  quite  as  much 
good  for  him.    He  lay,  stomach-dowr 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

lay.  "Amen,"  said  Gunner  Barnabas  piously, 
when  an  unusually  brilliant  string  of  oaths 
came  to  an  end.  "Seein'  that  this  gentleman 
'ere  has  never  seen  the  inside  o'  the  orsepitals 
you've  gotten  in,  and  the  clinks  you've  been 
chucked  into  like  a  hay-bundle,  per-haps,  Pri- 
vite  Shaddock,  you  will  stop.  You  are 
a-makin'  of  'im  sick."  Private  Shacklock  said 
that  he  was  pleased  to  hear  it,  and  would  have 
continued  his  speech,  but  his  breath  suddenly 
went  from  him,  and  the  unfinished  curse  died 
out  in  a  gasp.  Gunner  Barnabas  had  put  up 
one  of  his  huge  feet.  "There's  just  enough 
room  now  for  you  to  breathe,  Shacklock,"  said 
he,  "an'  not  enough  for  you  to  try  to  interrupt 
the  conversashin  I'm  a-havin'  with  this  gentle- 
man. CJioopT  Turning  to  me,  Gumier  Bar- 
nabas pulled  at  his  pipe,  but  showed  no  hurry 
to  open  the  "conversashin."  I  felt  embarrassed, 
for,  after  all,  the  thus  strangely  unearthed  dif- 
ference between  the  Gunner  and  the  Line  man 
was  no  affair  of  mine.  "Don't  you  go,"  said 
Gunner  Barnabas.  He  had  evidently  been 
deeply  moved  by  something.  He  dropped  his 
[112] 


THE  LIKES  O'  US 


head  between  his  fists  and  looked  steadily  at 
me. 

"I  met  this  child  'ere,"  said  he,  "at  Deelally 
— a  fish-back  recruity  as  ever  was.  I  knowed 
'im  at  Deelally,  and  I  give  'im  a  latherin'  at 
Deelally  all  for  to  keep  'im  straight,  'e  bein' 
such  as  wants  a  latherin'  an'  knowin'  nuthin' 
o'  the  ways  o'  this  country.  Then  I  meets  'im 
up  here,  a  butterfly-huntin'  as  innercent  as  you 
please — convalessin'.  I  goes  out  with  'im  but- 
terfly-huntin', and,  as  you  see  'ere,  a-shootin'. 
The  gun  betwixt  us."  I  saw  then,  what  I  had 
overlooked  before,  a  Company  fowling-piece 
lying  among  some  boulders  far  down  the  hill. 
Gunner  Barnabas  continued:  "I  should  ha' 
seen  where  he  had  a-bin  to  get  that  drink  in- 
side o'  'im.  Presently,  'e  misses  summat. 
'You're  a  bloomin'  fool,'  sez  I.  'If  that  had 
been  a  Pathan,  now!'  I  sez.  'Damn  your 
Pathans,  an'  you,  too,'  sez  'e.  'I  strook  it/ 
'You  did  not,'  I  sez,  'I  saw  the  bark 
fly.'  'Stick  to  your  bloomin'  pop-guns/  sez 
'e,  'an'  don't  talk  to  a  better  man  than  you.' 
I  laughed  there,  knowin'  what  I  was  an'  what 
[113] 


ABAFT  THE  FUXXEL 


*e  was.  'You  laugh?'  sez  he.  'I  laugh/  I  sez, 
'Shaddock,  an'  for  what  should  I  not  laugh?' 
sez  I.  'Then  go  an'  laugh  in  Hell,'  sez  'e,  'for 
I'll  'ave  none  of  your  laughinY  With  that  'e 
brings  up  the  gun  yonder  and  looses  off,  and 
I  stretches  'im  there,  and  guv  him  a  little  to 
keep  'im  quiet,  and  puts  'im  under,  an'  while 
I  was  thinkin'  what  nex',  you  comes  down  the 
'ill,  an'  finds  us  as  we  was." 

The  Private  was  the  Gminer's  prey — I  knew 
that  the  affair  had  fallen  as  the  Gunner  had 
said,  for  my  friend  is  constitutionally  incapa- 
ble of  lying — and  I  recognised  that  in  his 
hands  lay  the  boy's  fate. 

"What  do  you  think?"  said  Gunner  Barna- 
bas, after  a  silence  broken  only  by  the  con- 
vulsive breathing  of  the  boy  he  was  sitting  on. 
"I  think  nothing,"  I  said.  "He  didn't  go  at 
me.  He's  your  property."  Then  an  idea  oc- 
curred to  me.  "Hand  him  over  to  his  own 
Company.  They'll  school  him  half  dead." 
"Got  no  Comp'ny,"  said  Gunner  Barnabas. 
"  'E's  a  conv'lessint  draft — all  sixes  an'  sevens. 
Don't  matter  to  them  what  he  did."  "Thrash 
[114] 


THE  LIKES  O'  US 

him  yourself,  then,"  I  said.  Gunner  Barnabas 
looked  at  the  man  and  smiled ;  then  caught  up 
an  arm,  as  a  mother  takes  up  the  dimpled  arm 
of  a  child,  and  ran  the  sleeve  and  shirt  up  to 
the  elbow.  "Look  at  that!"  he  said.  It  was 
a  pitiful  arm,  lean  and  muscleless.  "Can  you 
mill  a  man  with  an  arm  like  that — such  as  I 
would  like  to  mill  him,  an'  such  as  he  deserves  ? 
I  tell  you,  sir,  an'  I  am  not  smokin'  (swagger- 
ing), as  you  see — I  could  take  that  man — 
Sodger  'e  is,  Lord  'elp  'im! — an'  twis'  off  'is 
arms  an'  'is  legs  as  if  'e  was  a  naked  crab.  See 
here!" 

Before  I  could  realise  what  was  going  to 
happen,  Gunner  Barnabas  rose  up,  stooped, 
and  taking  the  wretched  Private  Shacklock  by 
two  points  of  grasp,  heaved  him  up  above  his 
head.  The  boy  kicked  once  or  twice,  and  then 
was  still.  He  was  very  white.  "I  could  now," 
said  Gunner  Barnabas,  "I  could  now  chuck 
this  man  where  I  like.  Chuck  him  like  a  lump 
o'  beef,  an'  it  would  not  be  too  much  for  him 
if  I  chucked.  Can  I  thrash  such  a  man  with 
[115] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

both  'ands?  No,  nor  yet  with  my  right  'and 
tied  behind  my  back,  an'  my  lef  in  a  sling." 

He  dropped  Private  Shacklock  on  the 
ground  and  sat  upon  him  as  before.  The  boy 
groaned  as  the  weight  settled,  but  there  was 
a  look  in  his  white-lashed,  red  eyes  that  was 
not  pleasant. 

"I  do  not  know  what  I  will  do,"  said  Gunner 
Barnabas,  rocking  himself  to  and  fro.  "I 
know  'is  breed,  an'  the  way  o'  the  likes  o'  them. 
If  I  was  in  'is  Comp'ny,  an'  this  'ad  'appened, 
an'  I  'ad  struck  'im,  as  I  would  ha'  struck  him, 
'twould  ha'  all  passed  off  an'  bin  forgot  till 
the  drink  was  in  'im  again — a  month,  maybe, 
or  six,  maybe.  An'  when  the  drink  was  frizzin' 
in  'is  'ead  he  would  up  and  loose  off  in  the 
night  or  the  day  or  the  evenin*.  All  acause 
of  that  millin  that  'e  would  ha*  forgotten  in 
betweens.  That  I  would  be  dead — killed  by 
the  likes  o'  'im,  an'  me  the  next  strongest  man 
but  three  in  the  British  Army!" 

Private  Shacklock,  not  so  hardly  pressed  as 
he  had  been,  found  breath  to  say  that  if  he 
could  only  get  hold  of  the  fowling-piece  again 
[116] 


THE  LIKES  O'  US 

the  strongest  man  but  three  in  the  British 
Army  would  be  seriously  crippled  for  the  rest 
of  his  days.  "Hear  that  I"  said  Gunner  Barna- 
bas, sitting  heavily  to  silence  his  chair.  "Hear 
that,  you  that  think  things  is  funny  to  put 
into  the  papers !  He  would  shoot  me,  'e  would, 
now;  an'  so  long  as  he's  drunk,  or  comin'  out 
o'  the  drink,  'e  will  want  to  shoot  me.  Look 
a-here  I" 

He  turned  the  boy's  head  sideways,  his  hand 
round  the  nape  of  the  neck,  his  thumb  touch- 
ing the  angle  of  the  jaw.  "What  do  you  call 
those  marks?"  They  were  the  white  scars  of 
scrofula,  with  which  Shacklock  was  eaten  up. 
I  told  Gunner  Barnabas  this.  "I  don't  know 
what  that  means.  I  call  'em  murder-marks  an' 
signs.  If  a  man  'as  these  things  on  'im,  an' 
drinks,  so  long  as  'e's  drunk,  'e's  mad — a 
looney.  But  that  doesn't  'elp  if  'e  kills  you. 
Look  a-here,  an'  here!"  The  marks  were  thick 
on  the  jaw  and  neck.  "Stubbs  'ad  'em,"  said 
Gunner  Barnabas  to  himself,  "an'  Lancy  'ad 
'em,  an'  Duggard  'ad  'em,  an'  wot's  come  to 
them?  You've  got  'em,"  he  said,  addressing 
[117] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


himself  to  the  man  he  was  handling  like  a 
roped  calf,  "an'  sooner  or  later  you'll  go  with 
the  rest  of  'em.  But  this  time  I  will  not  do 
anything — exceptin'  keep  you  here  till  the 
drink's  dead  in  you." 

Gunner  Barnabas  resettled  himself  and  con- 
tinued: "Twice  this  afternoon,  Shacklock, 
you  'ave  been  so  near  dyin'  that  I  know  no 
man  more  so.  Once  was  when  I  stretched  you, 
an'  might  ha'  wiped  off  your  face  with  my 
boot  as  you  was  l}Tin';  an'  once  was  when  I 
lifted  you  up  in  my  fists.  Was  you  afraid, 
Shacklock?" 

"I  were,"  murmured  the  half-stifled  soldier. 

"An'  once  more  I  will  show  you  how  near 
you  can  go  to  Kingdom  Come  in  my  'ands." 
He  knelt  by  Shaddock's  side,  the  boy  lying 
still  as  death.  "If  I  Mas  to  hit  you  here," 
said  he,  "I  would  break  your  chest,  an'  you 
would  die.  If  I  was  to  put  my  'and  here,  an' 
my  other  'and  here,  I  would  twis'  your  neck, 
an'  you  would  die,  Privite  Shacklock.  If  I 
was  to  put  my  knees  here  an'  put  your  'ead  so, 
I  would  pull  off  your  'ead,  Privite  Shacklock, 
[118] 


THE  LIKES  O'  US 


an'  you  would  die.  If  you  think  as  how  I  am 
a  liar,  say  so,  an'  I'll  show  you.  Do  you  think 
so?" 

"No,"  whispered  Private  Shacklock,  not 
daring  to  move  a  muscle,  for  Barnabas's  hand 
was  on  his  neck. 

"Now,  remember,"  went  on  Barnabas, 
"neither  you  will  say  nothing  nor  I  will  say 
nothing  o'  what  has  happened.  I  ha'  put  you 
to  shame  before  me  an'  this  gentleman  here, 
an'  that  is  enough.  But  I  tell  you,  an'  you  give 
'eed  now,  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  desert 
than  to  go  on  a-servin'  where  you  are  now. 
If  I  meets  you  again — if  my  Batt'ry  lays  with 
your  Reg'ment,  an'  Privite  Shacklock  is  on 
the  rolls,  I  will  first  mill  you  myself  till  you 
can't  see,  and  then  I  will  say  why  I  strook  you. 
You  must  go,  an'  look  bloomin'  slippy  about 
it,  for  if  you  stay,  so  sure  as  God  made  Pay- 
thans  an'  we've  got  to  wipe  'em  out,  you'll  be 
loosing  off  o'  unauthorised  amminition — in  or 
out  o'  barricks,  an'  you'll  be  'anged  for  it.  I 
know  your  breed,  an'  I  know  what  these  'ere 
white  marks  mean.  You're  mad,  Shacklock, 
[119] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


that's  all — and  here  you  stay,  under  me.  An' 
now  choop,  an'  lie  still." 

I  waited  and  smoked,  and  Gunner  Barna- 
bas smoked  till  the  shadows  lengthened  on  the 
hillside,  and  a  chilly  wind  began  to  blow.  At 
dusk  Gunner  Barnabas  rose  and  looked  at  his 
captive.   "Drink's  out  o'  'im  now,"  he  said. 

"I  can't  move,"  whimpered  Shacklock.  "I've 
got  the  fever  back  again." 

"I'll  carry  you,"  said  Gunner  Barnabas, 
swinging  him  up  and  preparing  to  climb  the 
hill.  "Good-night,  sir,"  he  said  to  me.  "It 
looks  pretty,  doesn't  it?  But  never  you  for- 
get, an'  I  won't  forget  neither,  that  this  'ere 
shiverin',  shakin',  convalescent  a-hangin'  on  to 
my  neck  is  a  ragin',  tearin'  devil  when  'e's 
lushy — an'  'e  a  boy!" 

He  strode  up  to  the  hill  with  his  burden,  but 
just  before  he  disappeared  he  turned  round 
and  shouted:  "It's  the  likes  o'  'im  brings 
shame  on  the  likes  o'  us.  'Tain't  we  ourselves, 
s'elp  me  Gawd,  'tain't!" 


[120] 


HIS  BROTHER'S  KEEPER* 


I  <TT  IT  XHIST?" 

V/V/      "Can't  make  up  a  four?" 
▼    Y       "Poker,  then?" 

"Never    again    with  you, 
Robin.    'Tisn't  good  enough,  old  man." 

"Seeking  what  he  may  devour,"  murmured 
a  third  voice  from  behind  a  newspaper.  "Stop 
the  punkah,  and  make  him  go  away." 

"Don't  talk  of  it  on  a  night  like  this.  It's 
enough  to  give  a  man  fits.  You've  no  enter- 
prise. Here  I've  taken  the  trouble  to  come 
over  after  dinner  " 

"On  the  off-chance  of  skinning  some  one. 
I  don't  believe  you  ever  crossed  a  horse  for 
pleasure." 

"That's  true,  I  never  did — and  there  are 
only  two  Johnnies  in  the  Club." 
"They've  all  gone  off  to  the  Gaff." 

♦From  the  "Week's  News,"  April  7,  1888. 

[121] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


"Wah!  Wah!  They  must  be  pretty  hard 
up  for  amusement.   Help  me  to  a  split." 

"Split  in  this  weather!  Hi,  bearer,  do  hurra 
— hurra  whiskey-peg  lao,  and  just  put  all  the 
harf  into  them  that  you  can  find." 

The  newspaper  came  down  with  a  rustle,  as 
the  reader  said: 

"How  the  deuce  d'you  expect  a  man  to  im- 
prove his  mind  when  you  two  are  bukking 
about  drinks?   Qui  hai!   Mera  wasti  bhi." 

"Oh!  you're  alive,  are  you?  I  thought  pegs 
would  fetch  you  out  of  that.  Game  for  a  little 
poker?" 

"Poker — poker — red-hot  poker!  Saveloy, 
you're  too  generous.  Can't  you  let  a  man  die 
in  peace?" 

"Who's  going  to  die?" 

"I  am,  please  the  pigs,  if  it  gets  much  hot- 
ter and  that  bearer  doesn't  bring  the  peg 
quickly." 

"All  right.  Die  away,  mon  ami.  Only  don't 
do  it  in  the  Club,  that's  all.  Can't  have  it  lit- 
tered up  with  dead  members.  Houligan  would 
object." 

[122] 


HIS  BROTHER'S  KEEPER 


"By  J ove !  I  think  I  can  imagine  old  Houli- 
gan  doing  it.  'Member  dead  in  the  ante-room? 
Good  Gud!  Bless  my  soul!  Impossible  to 
run  a  Club  this  way.  Call  the  Babu  and  see 
if  his  last  month's  bill  is  paid.  Not  paid!  Good 
Gud!  Bless  my  soul!  Impossible  to  run  a 
Club  this  way.  Babu,  attach  that  body  till  the 
bill  is  paid.'  Revel,  you  might  just  hurry  up 
your  dying  once  in  a  way  to  give  us  the  pleas- 
ure of  seeing  Houligan  perform." 

"I'll  die  legitimately,"  said  Revel.  "I'm 
not  going  to  create  a  fresh  scandal  in  the  sta- 
tion. I'll  wait  for  heat-apoplexy,  or  whatever 
is  going,  to  come  and  fetch  me." 

"This  is  pukka  hot-weather  talk,"  said  Save- 
loy. "I  come  over  for  a  little  honest  poker,  and 
find  two  moderately  sensible  men,  Revel  and 
Dallston,  talking  tombs.  I'm  sorry  I've 
thrown  away  my  valuable  evening." 

"D'you  expect  us  to  talk  about  buttercups 
and  daisies,  then?"  said  Dallston. 

"No,  but  there's  some  sort  of  medium  be- 
tween those  and  Sudden  Death." 

"There  isn't.  I  haven't  seen  a  daisy  for 
[123] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


seven  years,  and  now  I  want  to  die,"  said  Revel, 
plunging  luxuriously  into  his  peg. 

"I  knew  a  Johnnie  on  the  Frontier  once 
who  did"  began  Dallston  meditatively. 

"Half  a  minute.  Bearer,  cherut  lao!  To- 
bacco soothes  the  nerves  when  a  man  is  expect- 
ing to  hear  a  whacker.  We  know  what  your 
Frontier  stories  are,  Martha." 

Dallston  had  once,  in  a  misguided  moment, 
taken  the  part  of  Martha  in  the  burlesque  of 
Faust,  and  the  nickname  stuck. 

"  'Tisn't  a  whacker,  it's  a  fact.  He  told  me 
so  himself." 

"They  always  do,  Martha.  I've  noticed  that 
before.   But  what  did  he  tell  you?" 

"He  told  me  that  he  had  died." 

"Was  that  all?   Explain  him." 

"It  was  this  way.  The  man  went  down  with 
a  bad  go  of  fever  and  was  off  his  head.  About 
the  second  day  it  struck  him  in  the  middle  of 
the  night." 

"Steady  the  Buffs!  Martha,  you  aren't  an 
Irishman  yet." 

"Never  mind.    It's  too  hot  to  put  it  cor- 
[124] 


HIS  BROTHER'S  KEEPER 

rectly.  In  the  middle  of  the  night  he  woke 
up  quite  calm,  and  it  struck  him  that  it  would 
be  a  good  thing  to  die — just  as  it  might  ha' 
struck  him  that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to 
put  ice  on  his  head.  He  lay  on  his  bed  and 
thought  it  over,  and  the  more  he  thought  about 
it,  the  better  sort  of  bundobust  it  seemed  to  be. 
He  was  quite  calm,  you  know,  and  he  said 
that  he  could  have  sworn  that  he  had  no  fever 
on  him." 

"Well,  what  happened?" 

"Oh,  he  got  up  and  loaded  his  revolver — he 
remembers  all  this — and  let  fly,  with  the  muz- 
zle to  his  temple.  The  thing  didn't  go  off,  so 
he  turned  it  up  and  found  he'd  forgot  to  load 
one  chamber." 

"Better  stop  the  tale  there.  We  can  guess 
what's  coming." 

"Hang  it!  It's  a  true  yarn.  Well,  he 
jammed  the  thing  to  his  head  again,  and  it 
missed  fire,  and  he  said  that  he  felt  ready  to 
cry  with  rage,  he  was  so  disgusted.  So  he 
took  it  by  the  muzzle  and  hit  himself  on  the 
head  with  it." 

[125] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


"Good  man!   Didn't  it  go  off  then?" 

"No,  but  the  blow  knocked  him  silly,  and  he 
thought  he  was  dead.  He  was  awfully  pleased, 
for  he  had  been  fiddling  over  the  show  for 
nearly  half  an  hour.  He  dropped  down  and 
died.  When  he  got  his  wits  again,  he  was 
shaking  with  the  fever  worse  than  ever,  but 
he  had  sense  enough  to  go  and  knock  up  the 
doctor  and  give  himself  into  his  charge  as  a 
lunatic.  Then  he  went  clean  off  his  head  till 
the  fever  wore  out." 

"That's  a  good  story,"  said  Revel  critically. 
"I  didn't  think  you  had  it  in  you  at  this  season 
of  the  year." 

"I  can  believe  it,"  said  the  man  they  called 
Saveloy.  "Fever  makes  one  do  all  sorts  of 
queer  things.  I  suppose  your  friend  was  mad 
with  it  when  he  discovered  it  would  be  so 
healthy  to  die." 

"S'pose  so.  The  fever  must  have  been  so 
bad  that  he  felt  all  right — same  way  that  a 
man  who  is  nearly  mad  with  drink  gets  to  look 
sober.  Well,  anyhow,  there  was  a  man  who 
died." 

[126] 


HIS  BROTHER'S  KEEPER 


"Did  he  tell  you  what  it  felt  like?'* 

"He  said  that  he  was  awfully  happy  until 
his  fever  came  back  and  shook  him  up.  Then 
he  was  sick  with  fear.  I  don't  wonder.  He'd 
had  rather  a  narrow  escape." 

"That's  nothing,"  said  Saveloy.  "I  know  a 
man  who  lived." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Revel.  "Lots  of  'em,  con- 
found 'em." 

"Now,  this  takes  Martha's  story,  and  it's 
quite  true." 

"They  always  are,"  said  Martha.  "I've 
noticed  that  before." 

"Never  mind,  I'll  forgive  you.  But  this 
happened  to  me.  Since  you  are  talking  tombs, 
I'll  assist  at  the  seance.  It  was  in  '82  or  '83, 
I  have  forgotten  which.  Anyhow,  it  was  when 
I  was  on  the  Utamamula  Canal  Headworks, 
and  I  was  chumming  with  a  man  called  Stovey. 
You've  never  met  him  because  he  belongs  to 
the  Bombay  side,  and  if  he  isn't  really  dead  by 
this  he  ought  to  be  somewhere  there  now.  He 
was  a  pukka  sweep,  and  I  hated  him.  We 
divided  the  Canal  bungalow  between  us,  and 
[127] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


we  kept  strictly  to  our  own  side  of  the  build- 
ings." 

"Hold  on!  I  call.  What  was  Stovey  to 
look  at?"  said  Revel. 

"Living  picture  of  the  King  of  Spades — a 
blackish,  greasy  sort  of  ruffian  who  hadn't  any 
pretence  of  manners  or  form.  He  used  to  dine 
in  the  kit  he  had  been  messing  about  the  Canal 
in  all  day,  and  I  don't  believe  he  ever  washed. 
He  had  the  embankments  to  look  after,  and 
I  was  in  charge  of  the  headworks,  but  he  was 
always  contriving  to  fall  foul  of  me  if  he  pos- 
sibly could." 

"I  know  that  sort  of  man.  Mullane  of 
Ghoridasah's  built  that  way." 

"Don't  know  Mullane,  but  Stovey  was  a 
sweep.  Canal  work  isn't  exactly  cheering,  and 
it  doesn't  take  you  into  7nuch  society.  We  were 
like  a  couple  of  rats  in  a  burrow,  grubbing 
and  scooping  all  day  and  turning  in  at  night 
into  the  barn  of  a  bungalow.  Well,  this  man 
Stovey  didn't  get  fever.  He  was  so  coated 
with  dirt  that  I  don't  believe  the  fever  could 
have  got  at  him.  He  just  began  to  go  mad." 
[  128  ] 


HIS  BROTHER'S  KEEPER 

"Cheerful!   What  were  the  symptoms?" 

"Well,  his  naturally  vile  temper  grew  in- 
famous. It  was  really  unsafe  to  speak  to  him, 
and  he  always  seemed  anxious  to  murder  a 
coolie  or  two.  With  me,  of  course,  he  re- 
strained himself  a  little,  but  he  sulked  like  a 
bear  for  days  and  days  together.  As  he  was 
the  only  European  society  within  sixty  miles, 
you  can  imagine  how  nice  it  was  for  me.  He'd 
sit  at  table  and  sulk  and  stare  at  the  opposite 
wall  by  the  hour — instead  of  doing  his  work. 
When  I  pointed  out  that  the  Government 
didn't  send  us  into  these  cheerful  places  to 
twiddle  our  thumbs,  he  glared  like  a  beast. 
Oh,  he  was  a  thorough  hog!  He  had  a  lot  of 
other  endearing  tricks,  but  the  worst  was  when 
he  began  to  pray." 

"Began  to — how  much?" 

"Pray.  He'd  got  hold  of  an  old  copy  of 
the  War  Cry  and  used  to  read  it  at  meals; 
and  I  suppose  that  that,  on  the  top  of  tough 
goat,  disordered  his  intellect.  One  night  I 
heard  him  in  his  room  groaning  and  talking 
at  a  fearful  rate.  Next  morning  I  asked  him 
[129] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


if  he'd  been  taken  worse.  'I've  been  engaged 
in  prayer,'  he  said,  looking  as  black  as  thunder. 
'A  man's  spiritual  concerns  are  his  own  prop- 
erty.' One  night — he'd  kept  up  these  spiritual 
exercises  for  about  ten  days,  growing  queerer 
and  queerer  every  day — he  said  'Good-night' 
after  dinner,  and  got  up  .and  shook  hands  with 
me." 

"Bad  sign,  that,"  said  Revel,  sucking  indus- 
triously at  his  cheroot. 

"At  first  I  couldn't  make  out  what  the  man 
wanted.  No  felloAv  shakes  hands  with  a  fellow 
he's  living  with — least  of  all  such  a  beast  as 
Stovey.  However,  I  was  civil,  but  the  minute 
after  he'd  left  the  room  it  struck  me  what  he 
was  going  to  do.  If  he  hadn't  shaken  hands 
I'd  have  taken  no  notice,  I  suppose.  This 
unusual  effusion  put  me  on  my  guard." 

"Curious  thing!  You  can  nearly  always  tell 
when  a  Johnnie  means  pegging  out.  He  gives 
himself  away  by  some  softening.  It's  human 
nature.   What  did  you  do?" 

"Called  him  back,  and  asked  him  what  the 
this  and  that  he  meant  by  interfering  with  my 
[130] 


HIS  BROTHER'S  KEEPER 

coolies  in  the  day.  He  was  generally  hamper- 
ing my  men,  but  I  had  never  taken  any  notice 
of  his  vagaries  till  then.  In  another  minute 
we  were  arguing  away,  hammer  and  tongs. 
If  it  had  been  any  other  man  I'd  'a'  simply 
thrown  the  lamp  at  his  head.  He  was  calling 
me  all  the  mean  names  under  the  sun,  accus- 
ing me  of  misusing  my  authority  and  good- 
ness only  knows  what  all.  When  he  had  talked 
himself  down  one  stretch,  I  had  only  to  say 
a  few  words  to  start  him  off  again,  as  fresh 
as  a  daisy.  On  my  word,  this  jabbering  went 
on  for  nearly  three  hours." 

"Why  didn't  you  get  coolies  and  have  him 
tied  up,  if  you  thought  he  was  mad?"  asked 
Revel. 

"Not  a  safe  business,  believe  me.  Wrong- 
ful restraint  on  your  own  responsibility  of  a 
man  nearly  your  own  standing  looks  ugly. 
Well,  Stovey  went  on  bullying  me  and  com- 
plaining about  everything  I'd  ever  said  or 
done  since  I  came  on  the  Canal,  till — he  went 
fast  asleep." 

"Wha-at?" 

[131] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

"Went  off  dead  asleep,  just  as  if  he'd  been 
drugged.  I  thought  the  brute  had  had  a  fit 
at  first,  but  there  he  was,  with  his  head  hang- 
ing a  little  on  one  side  and  his  mouth  open.  I 
knocked  up  his  bearer  and  told  him  to  take 
the  man  to  bed.  We  carried  him  off  and 
shoved  him  on  his  charpoy.  He  was  still  asleep, 
and  I  didn't  think  it  worth  while  to  undress 
him.  The  fit,  whatever  it  was,  had  worked 
itself  out,  and  he  was  limp  and  used  up.  But 
as  I  was  going  to  leave  the  room,  and  went  to 
turn  the  lamp  down,  I  looked  in  the  glass  and 
saw  that  he  was  watching  me  between  his  eye- 
lids. When  I  spun  round  he  seemed  asleep. 
'That's  your  game,  is  it?'  I  thought,  and  I 
stood  over  him  long  enough  to  see  that  he 
was  shamming.  Then  I  cast  an  eye  round 
the  room  and  saw  his  Martini  in  the  corner. 
We  were  all  bullumteers  on  the  Canal  works. 
I  couldn't  find  the  cartridges,  so  to  make  all 
serene  I  knocked  the  breech-pin  out  with  the 
cleaning-rod  and  went  to  my  own  room.  I 
didn't  go  to  sleep  for  some  time.  About  one 
o'clock — our  rooms  were  only  divided  by  a 
[132] 


HIS  BROTHER  S  KEEPER 

door  of  sorts,  and  my  bed  was  close  to  it — I 
heard  my  friend  open  a  chest  of  drawers.  Then 
he  went  for  the  Martini.  Of  course,  the  breech- 
block came  out  with  a  rattle.  Then  he  went 
back  to  bed  again,  and  I  nearly  laughed. 

"Next  morning  he  was  doing  the  genial, 
hail-fellow-well-met  trick.  Said  he  was  afraid 
he'd  lost  his  temper  overnight,  and  apologised 
for»it.  About  half  way  through  breakfast — he 
was  talking  thickly  about  everything  and  any- 
thing— he  said  he'd  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
a  beard  was  a  beastly  nuisance  and  made  one 
stuffy.  He  was  going  to  shave  his.  Would 
I  lend  him  my  razors?  'Oh,  you're  a  crafty 
beast,  you  are/  I  said  to  myself.  I  told  him 
that  I  was  of  the  other  opinion,  and  finding  my 
razors  nearly  worn  out  had  chucked  them  into 
the  Canal  only  the  night  before.  He  gave 
me  one  look  under  his  eyebrows  and  went  on 
with  his  breakfast.  I  was  in  a  stew  lest  the 
man  should  cut  his  throat  with  one  of  the  break- 
fast knives,  so  I  kept  one  eye  on  him  most  of 
the  time. 

"Before  I  left  the  bungalow  I  caught  old 
[133] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

Jeewun  Singh,  one  of  the  mistries  on  the  gates, 
and  gave  him  strict  orders  that  he  was  to  keep 
in  sight  of  the  Sahib  wherever  he  went  and 
whatever  he  did;  and  if  he  did  or  tried  to  do 
anything  foolish,  such  as  jumping  down  the 
well,  Jeewun  Singh  was  to  stop  him.  The  old 
man  tumbled  at  once,  and  I  was  easier  in  my 
mind  when  I  saw  how  he  was  shadowing  Stovey 
up  and  down  the  works.  Then  I  sat  down  and 
wrote  a  letter  to  old  Baggs,  the  Civil  Surgeon 
at  Chemanghath,  about  sixty  miles  off,  telling 
him  how  we  stood.  The  runner  left  about  three 
o'clock.  Jeewun  Singh  turned  up  at  the  end 
of  the  day  and  gave  a  full,  true  and  particular 
account  of  Stovey's  doings.  D'you  know  what 
the  brute  had  done?" 

"Spare  us  the  agony.  Kill  him  straight  off, 
Saveloy!" 

"He'd  stopped  the  runner,  opened  the  bag, 
read  my  letter  and  torn  it  up!  There  were 
only  two  letters  in  the  bag,  both  of  which  I'd 
written.  I  was  pretty  average  angry,  but  I 
lay  low.  At  dinner  he  said  he'd  got  a  touch 
of  dysentery  and  wanted  some  chlorodyne. 
[134] 


HIS  BROTHER'S  KEEPER 

For  a  man  anxious  to  depart  this  life  he  was 
about  as  badly  equipped  as  you  could  wish. 
Hadn't  even  a  medicine-chest  to  play  with. 
He  was  no  more  suffering  from  dysentery  than 
I,  but  I  said  I'd  give  him  the  chlorodyne,  and 
so  I  did — fifteen  drops,  mixed  in  a  wine-glass, 
and  when  he  asked  for  the  bottle  I  said  that 
I  hadn't  any  more. 

"That  night  he  began  praying  again,  and 
I  just  lay  in  bed  and  shuddered.  He  was 
invoking  the  most  blasphemous  curses  on  my 
head — all  in  a  whisper,  for  fear  of  waking  me 
up — for  frustrating  what  he  called  his  'great 
and  holy  purpose.'  You  never  heard  any- 
thing like  it.  But  as  long  as  he  was  praying 
I  knew  he  was  alive,  and  he  ran  his  praying 
half  through  the  night. 

"Well,  for  the  next  ten  days  he  was  ap- 
parently quite  rational ;  but  I  watched  him  and 
told  Jeewun  Singh  to  watch  him  like  a  cat. 
I  suppose  he  wanted  to  throw  me  off  my 
guard,  but  I  wasn't  to  be  thrown.  I  grew 
thin  watching  him.  Baggs  wrote  in  to  say 
he  had  gone  on  tour  and  couldn't  be  found 
[135] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

anywhere  in  particular  for  another  six  weeks. 
It  was  a  ghastly  time. 

"One  day»old  Jeewun  Singh  turned  up  with 
a  bit  of  paper  that  Stovey  had  given  to  one  of 
the  lohars  as  a  naksha.  I  thought  it  was  mean 
work  spying  into  another  man's  very  plans, 
but  when  I  saw  what  was  on  the  paper  I  gave 
old  Jeewmi  Singh  a  rupee-.  It  was  a  be-auti- 
ful  little  breech-pin.  The  one-idead  idiot  had 
gone  back  to  Martini !  I  never  dreamt  of  such 
persistence.  'Tell  me  when  the  lohar  gives  it 
to  the  Sahib/  I  said,  and  I  felt  more  comfy 
for  a  few  days.  Even  if  Jeewun  Singh  hadn't 
split  I  should  have  known  when  the  new  breech- 
pin  was  made.  The  brute  came  in  to  dinner 
with  a  dashed  confident,  triumphant  air,  as 
if  he'd  done  me  in  the  eye  at  last;  and  all 
through  dinner  he  was  fiddling  in  his  waist- 
coat pocket.  He  went  to  bed  early.  I  went, 
too,  and  I  put  my  head  against  the  door  and 
listened  like  a  woman.  I  must  have  been  shiv- 
ering in  my  pyjamas  for  about  two  hours 
before  my  friend  went  for  the  dismantled 
Martini.  He  could  not  get  the  breech-pin  to 
[136] 


HIS  BROTHER'S  KEEPER 

fit  at  first.  He  rummaged  about,  and  then 
I  heard  a  file  go.  That  seemed  to  make  too 
much  noise  to  suit  his  fancy,  so  he  opened  the 
door  and  went  out  into  the  compound,  and  I 
heard  him,  about  fifty  yards  off,  filing  in  the 
dark  at  that  breech-pin  as  if  he  had  been  pos- 
sessed. Well,  he  waSj  you  know.  Then  he 
came  back  to  the  light,  cursing  me  for  keeping 
him  out  of  his  rest  and  the  peace  of  Abraham's 
bosom.  As  soon  as  I  heard  him  taking  up 
the  Martini,  I  ran  round  to  his  door  and  tried 
to  enter  gaily,  as  the  stage  directions  say. 
'Lend  me  your  gun,  old  man,  if  you're  awake,' 
I  said.  'There's  a  howling  big  brute  of  a 
pariah  in  my  room,  and  I  want  to  get  a  shot 
at  it.'  I  pretended  not  to  notice  that  he  was 
standing  over  the  gun,  but  just  pranced  up  and 
caught  hold  of  it.  He  turned  round  with  a 
jump  and  said:  'I'm  sick  of  this.  I'll  see 
that  dog,  and  if  it's  another  of  your  lies 
I'll  '  You  know  I'm  not  a  moral  man." 

"Hear!  hear!"  drowsily  from  Martha. 

"But  I  simply  daren't  repeat  what  he  said. 
'All  right!'  I  said,  still  hanging  on  to  the  gun. 
[137] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


'Come  along  and  we'll  bowl  him  over.'  He 
followed  me  into  my  room  with  a  face  like  a 
fiend  in  torment.  And,  as  truly  as  I'm  yarn- 
ing here,  there  was  a  huge  brindled  beast  of  a 
pariah  sitting  on  my  bed!" 

"Tall,  sir,  tall.  But  go  on.  The  audience 
is  now  awake." 

"Hang  it!  Could  I  have  invented  that 
pariah?  Stovey  dropped  of  the  gun  and 
flopped  down  in  a  corner  and  yowled.  I  went 
fee  ki  ri  ki  re!1  like  a  woman  in  hysterics, 
pitched  the  gun  forward  and  loosed  off  through 
a  window." 

"And  the  pariah?" 

"He  quitted  for  the  time  being.  Stovey  was 
in  an  awful  state.  He  swore  the  animal 
hadn't  been  there  when  I  called  him.  That 
was  true  enough.  I  firmly  believe  Providence 
put  it  there  to  save  me  from  being  killed  by 
the  infuriated  Stovey." 

"You've  too  lively  a  belief  in  Providence 
altogether.   What  happened?" 

"Stovey  tried  to  recover  himself  and  pass  it 
all  over,  but  he  let  me  keep  the  gun  and  went  to 
[138] 


HIS  BROTHER'S  KEEPER 

bed.  About  two  days  afterwards  old  Baggs 
turned  up  on  tour,  and  I  told  him  Stovey 
wanted  watching — more  than  I  could  give  him. 
I  don't  know  whether  Baggs  or  the  pi  did  it, 
but  he  didn't  throw  any  more  suicidal  splints. 
I  was  transferred  a  little  while  afterwards." 

"Ever  meet  the  man  again?" 

"Yes;  once  at  Sheik  Katan  dak  bungalow — 
trailing  the  big  brindle  pi  after  him." 

"Oh,  it  was  real,  then.  I  thought  it  was 
arranged  for  the  occasion." 

"Not  a  bit.  It  was  a  pukka  pi.  Stovey 
seemed  to  remember  me  in  the  same  way  that 
a  horse  seems  to  remember.  I  fancy  his  brain 
was  a  little  cloudy.  We  tiffined  together — 
after  the  pi  had  been  fed,  if  you  please — and 
Stovey  said  to  me:  'See  that  dog?  He  saved 
my  life  once.  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  believe  you 
were  there,  too,  weren't  you?'  I  shouldn't  care 
to  work  with  Stovey  again." 

****** 

There  was  a  holy  pause  in  the  smoking-room 
of  the  Toopare  Club. 

[139] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

"What  I  like  about  Saveloy's  play,"  said 
Martha,  looking  at  the  ceiling,  "is  the  beauti- 
fully artistic  way  in  which  he  follows  up  a 
flush  with  a  full.   Go  to  bed,  old  manl" 


[140] 


"SLEIPNER,"  LATE  'THURINDA''* 


There  are  men,  both  good  and  wise,  who  hold  that 
in  a  future  state 
Dumb  creatures  we  have  cherished  here  below 
Will  give  us  joyous  welcome  as  we  pass  the  Golden 
Gate. 

Is  it  folly  if  I  hope  it  may  be  so? 

— The  Place  Where  the  Old  Horse  Died. 

IF  there  were  any  explanation  available 
*  here,  I  should  be  the  first  person  to  offer 
it.  Unfortunately,  there  is  not,  and  I 
am  compelled  to  confine  myself  to  the 
facts  of  the  case  as  vouched  for  by  Hordene 
and  confirmed  by  "Guj,"  who  is  the  last  man 
in  the  world  to  throw  away  a  valuable  horse 
for  nothing. 

Jale  came  up  with  Thurinda  to  the  Shayid 
Spring  meeting;  and  besides  Thurinda  his 


♦"Week's  News,"  May  12,  1888. 

[141] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

string  included  Divorce,  Meg's  Diversions  and 
Benoni^-ponies  of  sorts.  He  won  the  Officers' 
Scurry — five  furlongs — with  Benoni  on  the 
first  day,  and  that  sent  up  the  price  of  the 
stable  in  the  evening  lotteries;  for  Benoni  was 
the  worst-looking  of  the  three,  being  a  pigeon- 
toed,  split-chested  dak  horse,  with  a  wonderful 
gift  of  blundering  in  on  his  shoulders — ridden 
out  to  the  last  ounce — but  first.  Next  day  Jale 
was  riding  Divorce  in  the  Wattle  and  Dab 
Stakes — round  the  jump  course;  and  she 
turned  over  at  the  on-and-off  course  when  she 
was  leading  and  managed  to  break  her  neck. 
She  never  stirred  from  the  place  where  she 
dropped,  and  Jale  did  not  move  either  till  he 
was  carried  off  the  ground  to  his  tent  close 
to  the  big  shamiana  where  the  lotteries  were 
held.  He  had  ricked  his  back,  and  everything 
below  the  hips  was  as  dead  as  timber.  Other- 
wise he  was  perfectly  well.  The  doctor  said 
that  the  stiffness  would  spread  and  that  he 
would  die  before  the  next  morning.  Jale  in- 
sisted upon  knowing  the  worst,  and  when  he 
heard  it  sent  a  pencil  note  to  the  Honorary 
[142] 


SLEIPNER,"  LATE  "THURINDA" 


Secretary,  saying  that  they  were  not  to  stop 
the  races  or  do  anything  foolish  of  that  kind. 
If  he  hung  on  till  the  next  day  the  nomina- 
tions for  the  third  day's  racing  would  not  be 
void,  and  he  would  settle  up  all  claims  before 
he  threw  up  his  hand.  This  relieved  the  Hon- 
orary Secretary,  because  most  of  the  horses 
had  come  from  a  long  distance,  and,  under  any 
circumstance,  even  had  the  Judge  dropped 
dead  in  the  box,  it  would  have  been  impossible 
to  have  postponed  the  racing.  There  was  a 
great  deal  of  money  on  the  third  day,  and  five 
or  six  of  the  owners  were  gentlemen  who  would 
make  even  one  day's  delay  an  excuse.  Well, 
settling  would  not  be  easy.  No  one  knew  much 
about  Jale.  He  was  an  outsider  from  down 
country,  but  every  one  hoped  that,  since  he 
was  doomed,  he  would  live  through  the  third 
day  and  save  trouble. 

Jale  lay  on  his  charpoy  in  the  tent  and  asked 
the  doctor  and  the  man  who  catered  to  the  re- 
freshments— he  was  the  nearest  at  the  time — 
to  witness  his  will.  "I  don't  know  how  long 
my  arms  will  be  workable,"  said  Jale,  "and 
[143] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

we'd  better  get  this  business  over."  The  pri- 
vate arrangements  of  the  will  concern  nobody 
but  Jale's  friends;  but  there  was  one  clause 
that  was  rather  curious.  "Who  was  that  man 
with  the  brindled  hair  who  put  me  up  for  a 
night  until  the  tent  was  ready?  The  man  who 
rode  down  to  pick  me  up  when  I  was  smashed. 
Nice  sort  of  fellow  he  seemed."  "Hordene?" 
said  the  doctor.  "Yes,  Hordene.  Good  chap, 
Hordene.  He  keeps  Bull  whisky.  Write 
down  that  I  give  this  Johnnie  Hordene  Thur~ 
inda  for  his  own,  if  he  can  sell  the  other  ponies. 
ThurindcLS  a  good  mare.  He  can  enter  her — 
post-entry — for  the  All  Horse  Sweep  if  he 
likes — on  the  last  day.  Have  you  got  that 
down?  I  suppose  the  Stewards'll  recognise 
the  gift?"  "No  trouble  about  that,"  said  the 
doctor.  "All  right.  Give  him  the  other  two 
ponies  to  sell.  They're  entered  for  the  last 
day,  but  I  shall  be  dead  then.    Tell  him  to 

send  the  money  to  "    Here  he  gave  an 

address.  "Now  I'll  sign  and  you  sign,  and 
that's  all.  This  deadness  is  coming  up  between 
my  shoulders." 

[  144] 


"SLEIPNER,"  LATE  "THUMNDA" 

Jale  lived,  dying  very  slowly,  till  the  third 
day's  racing,  and  up  till  the  time  of  the  lot- 
teries on  the  fourth  day's  racing.  The  doctor 
was  rather  surprised.  Hordene  came  in  to 
thank  him  for  his  gift,  and  to  suggest  it  would 
be  much  better  to  sell  Thurinda  with  the  others. 
She  was  the  best  of  them  all,  and  would  have 
fetched  twelve  hundred  on  her  looking-over 
merits  only.  "Don't  you  bother,"  said  Jale. 
"You  take  her.  I  rather  liked  you.  I've  got 
no  people,  and  that  Bull  whisky  was  first- 
class  stuff.    I'm  pegging  out  now,  I  think." 

The  lottery-tent  outside  was  beginning  to 
fill,  and  Jale  heard  the  click  of  the  dice. 
"That's  all  right,"  said  he.  "I  wish  I  was 
there,  but — I'm — going  to  the  drawer."  Then 
he  died  quietly.  Hordene  went  into  the  lottery- 
tent,  after  calling  the  doctor.  "How's  Jale?" 
said  the  Honorary  Secretary.  "Gone  to  the 
drawer,"  said  Hordene,  settling  into  a  chair 
and  reaching  out  for  a  lottery  paper.  "Poor 
beggar!"  said  the  Honorary  Secretary. 
"  'Twasn't  the  fault  of  our  on-and-off,  though. 
The  mare  blundered.  Gentlemen !  gentlemen ! 
[145] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

Nine  hundred  and  eighty  rupees  in  the  lottery, 
and  River  of  Years  for  sale!"  The  lottery 
lasted  far  into  the  night,  and  there  was  a  sup- 
plementary lottery  on  the  All  Horse  Sweep, 
where  Thurinda  sold  for  a  song,  and  was  not 
bought  by  her  owner.  "It's  not  lucky,"  said 
Hordene,  and  the  rest  of  the  men  agreed  with 
him.  "I  ride  her  myself,  but  I  don't  know 
anything  about  her  and  I  wish  to  goodness  I 
hadn't  taken  her,"  said  he.  "Oh,  bosh!  Never 
refuse  a  horse  or  a  drink,  however  you  come 
by  them.  No  one  objects,  do  they?  Not  going 
to  refer  this  matter  to  Calcutta,  are  we?  Here, 
somebody,  bid!  Eleven  hundred  and  fifty 
rupees  in  the  lottery,  and  Thurinda — absolute- 
ly unknown,  acquired  under  the  most  romantic 
circumstances  from  about  the  toughest  man 
it  has  ever  been  my  good  fortune  to  meet — 
for  sale.  Hullo,  Nurji,  is  that  you?  Gentle- 
men, where  a  Pagan  bids  shall  enlightened 
Christians  hang  back?  Ten!  Going,  going, 
gone!"  "You  want  ha-af,  sar?"  said  the  bat- 
tered native  trainer  to  Hordene.  "No,  thanks 
— not  a  bit  of  her  for  me." 

[146] 


"SLEIPNER,"  LATE  "THURINDA" 

The  All  Horse  Sweep  was  run,  and  won  by 
Thurinda  by  about  a  street  and  three-quarters, 
to  be  very  accurate,  amid  derisive  cheers,  which 
Hordene,  who  flattered  himself  that  he  knew 
something  about  riding,  could  not  understand. 
On  pulling  up  he  looked  over  his  shoulder  and 
saw  that  the  second  horse  was  only  just  passing 
the  box.  "Now,  how  did  I  make  such  a  fool 
of  myself?"  he  said  as  he  returned  to  weigh 
out.  His  friends  gathered  round  him  and 
asked  tenderly  whether  this  was  the  first  time 
that  he  had  got  up,  and  whether  it  was  abso- 
lutely necessary  that  the  winning  horse  should 
be  ridden  out  when  the  field  were  hopelessly 
pumped,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  behind,  etc.,  etc. 
"I — I — thought  River  of  Years  was  pressing 
me,"  explained  Hordene.  "River  of  Years 
was  wallowing,  absolutely  wallowing,"  said  a 
man,  "before  you  turned  into  the  straight. 
You  rode  like  a — hang  it — like  a  Militia  subal- 
tern!" 

The  Shayid  Spring  meeting  broke  up  and 
the  sportsmen  turned  their  steps  towards  the 
next  carcase — the  Ghoriah   Spring.  With 
[147] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

them  went  Tlmrinda  s  owner,  the  happy  pos- 
sessor of  an  almost  perfect  animal.  "She's  as 
easy  as  a  Pullman  car  and  about  twice  as  fast," 
he  was  wont  to  say  in  moments  of  confidence 
to  his  intimates.  "For  all  her  bulk,  she's  as 
handy  as  a  polo-pony;  a  child  might  ride  her, 
and  when  she's  at  the  post  she's  as  cute — she's 
as  cute  as  the  bally  starter  himself."  Many 
times  had  Hordene  said  this,  till  at  last  one 
unsympathetic  friend  answered  with:  "When 
a  man  buhhs  too  much  about  his  wife  or  his 
horse,  it's  a  sure  sign  he's  trying  to  make  him- 
self like  'em.  I  mistrust  your  Tlmrinda.  She's 

too  good,  or  else  "     "Or  else  what?" 

"You're  trying  to  believe  you  like  her."  "Like 
her!  I  love  her!  I  trust  that  darling  as  I'm 
shot  if  I'd  trust  you.  I'd  hack  her  for  tup- 
pence." "Hack  away,  then.  I  don't  want  to 
hurt  your  feelings.  I  don't  hack  my  stable 
myself,  but  some  horses  go  better  for  it.  Come 
and  peacock  at  the  band-stand  this  evening." 
To  the  band-stand  accordingly  Hordene  came, 
and  the  lovely  Tlmrinda  comported  herself 
with  all  the  gravity  and  decorum  that  might 
[148] 


"SLEIPNER,"  LATE  "THURINDA" 


have  been  expected.  Hordene  rode  home  with 
the  scoffer,  through  the  dusk,  discoursing  on 
matters  indifferent.  "Hold  up  a  minute,"  said 
his  friend,  "there's  Gagley  riding  behind  us." 
Then,  raising  his  voice:  "Come  along,  Gagley! 
I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  the  Race  Ball." 
But  no  Gagley  came;  and  the  couple  went 
forward  at  a  trot.  "Hang  it!  There's  that 
man  behind  us  still."  Hordene  listened  and 
could  clearly  hear  the  sound  of  a  horse  trot- 
ting, apparently  just  behind  them.  "Come  on, 
Gagley !  Don't  play  bo-peep  in  that  ridiculous 
way,"  shouted  the  friend.  Again  no  Gagley. 
Twenty  yards  farther  there  was  a  crash  and  a 
stumble  as  the  friend's  horse  came  down  over 
an  unseen  rat-hole.  "How  much  damaged?" 
asked  Hordene.  "Sprained  my  wrist,"  was 
the  dolorous  answer,  "and  there  is  something 
wrong  with  my  knee-cap.  There*  goes  my 
mount  to-morrow,  and  this  gee  is  cut  like  a 
cab-horse." 

On  the  first  day  of  the  Ghoriah  meeting 
Thurinda  was  hopelessly  ridden  out  by  a  na- 
tive jockey,  to  whose  care  Hordene  had  at  the 
[149] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

last  moment  been  compelled  to  confide  her. 
You  forsaken  idiot!"  said  he,  "what  made  you 
begin  riding  as  soon  as  you  were  clear?  She 
had  everything  safe,  if  you'd  only  left  her 
alone.  You  rode  her  out  before  the  home  turn, 
you  hog!"  "What  could  I  do?"  said  the  jockey 
sullenly.  "I  was  pressed  by  another  horse." 
"Whose  'other  horse'?  There  were  twenty 
yards  of  daylight  between  you  and  the  ruck. 
If  you'd  kept  her  there  even  then  'twouldn't 
ha'  mattered.  But  you  rode  her  out — you  rode 
her  out!"  "There  was  another  horse  and  he 
pressed  me  to  the  end,  and  when  I  looked 
round  he  was  no  longer  there."  Let  us,  in 
charity,  draw  a  veil  over  Hordene's  language 
at  this  point.  "Goodness  knows  whether  she'll 
be  fit  to  pull  out  again  for  the  last  event.  D — n 
you  and  your  other  horses!  I  wish  I'd  broken 
your  neck  before  letting  you  get  up !"  Thurinda 
was  done  to  a  turn,  and  it  seemed  a  cruelty 
to  ask  her  to  run  again  in  the  last  race  of  the 
day.  Hordene  rode  this  time,  and  was  careful 
to  keep  the  mare  within  herself  at  the  outset. 
Once  more  Thurinda  left  her  field — with  one 
[150] 


"SLEIPNER,"  LATE  "THURINDA" 


exception — a  grey  horse  that  hung  upon  her 
flanks  and  could  not  be  shaken  off.  The  mare 
was  done,  and  refused  to  answer  the  call  upon 
her.  She  tried  hopelessly  in  the  straight  and 
was  caught  and  passed  by  her  old  enemy, 
River  of  Years — the  chestnut  of  Kurnaul. 
"You  rode  well — like  a  native,  Hordene," 
was  the  unflattering  comment.  "The  mare  was 
ridden  out  before  River  of  Years."  "But  the 
grey,"  began  Hordene,  and  then  ceased,  for 
he  knew  that  there  was  no  grey  in  the  race. 
Blue  Point  and  Diamond  Dust,  the  only  greys 
at  the  meeting,  were  running  in  the  Arab  Han- 
dicap. 

He  caught  his  native  jockey.  "What  horse, 
d'you  say,  pressed  you?"  "I  don't  know.  It 
was  a  grey  with  nutmeg  tickings  behind  the 
saddle."  That  evening  Hordene  sought  the 
great  Major  Blare-Tyndar,  who  knew  per- 
sonally the  father,  mother  and  ancestors  of 
almost  every  horse,  brought  from  ekka  or  ship, 
that  had  ever  set  foot  on  an  Indian  race-course. 
"Say,  Major,  what  is  a  grey  horse  with  nut- 
meg tickings  behind  the  saddle?"  "A  curiosity. 
[151] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

Wendell  Holmes  is  a  grey,  with  nutmeg  on  the 
near  shoulder,  but  there  is  no  horse  marked 
your  way,  now.  Then,  after  a  pause:  "No, 
I'm  wrong — you  ought  to  know.  The  pony 
that  got  you  Thurinda  was  grey  and  nutmeg." 
"How  much?"  ff Divorce ,  of  course.  The  mare 
that  broke  her  neck  at  the  Shayid  meeting  and 
killed  Jale.  A  big  thirteen-three  she  was.  I 
recollect  when  she  was  hacking  old  Snuffy 
Beans  to  office.  He  bought  her  from  a  dealer, 
who  had  her  left  on  his  hands  as  a  rejection 
when  the  Pink  Hussars  were  buying  team  up 

country  and  then   Hullo!    The  man's 

gone!"  Hordene  had  departed  on  receipt  of 
information  which  he  already  knew.  He  only 
demanded  extra  confirmation.  Then  he  began 
to  argue  with  himself,  bearing  in  mind  that 
he  himself  was  a  sane  man,  neither  gluttonous 
nor  a  wine-bibber,  with  an  unimpaired  diges- 
tion, and  that  Thurinda  was  to  all  appearance 
a  horse  of  ordinary  flesh  and  exceedingly  good 
blood.  Arrived  at  these  satisfactory  conclu- 
sions, he  reargued  the  whole  matter. 

Being  by  nature  intensely  superstitious,  he 
[152] 


"SLEIPNER,"  LATE  "THURINDA" 


decided  upon  scratching  Thurinda  and  facing 
the  howl  of  indignation  that  would  follow.  He 
also  decided  to  leave  the  Ghoriah  meet  and 
change  his  luck.  But  it  would  have  been  sin- 
ful— positively  wicked — to  have  left  without 
waiting  for  the  polo-match  that  was  to  con- 
clude the  festivities.  At  the  last  moment  be- 
fore the  match,  one  of  the  leading  players  of 
the  Ghoriah  team  and  Hordene's  host  discov- 
ered that,  through  the  kindly  foresight  of  his 
head  sais,  every  single  pony  had  been  taken 
down  to  the  ground.  "Lend  me  a  hack,  old 
man,"  he  shouted  to  Hordene  as  he  was  chang- 
ing. "Take  Thurinda/"  was  the  reply.  "She'll 
bring  you  down  in  ten  minutes."  And  Thur- 
inda was  accordingly  saddled  for  Marish's 
benefit.  "I'll  go  down  with  you,"  said  Hor- 
dene. The  two  rode  off  together  at  a  hand 
canter.  "By  Jove!  Somebody's  sais  '11  get 
kicked  for  this!"  said  Marish,  looking  round. 
"Look  there!  He's  coming  for  the  mare!  Pull 
out  into  the  middle  of  the  road."  "What  on 
earth  d'you  mean?"  "Well,  if  you  can  take  a 
strayed  horse  so  calmly,  I  can't.  Didn't  you 
[153] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

see  what  a  lather  that  grey  was  in?"  "What 
grey?"  "The  grey  that  just  passed  us — 
saddle  and  all.  He's  got  away  from  the 
ground,  I  suppose.  Now  he's  turned  the  cor- 
ner; but  you  can  hear  his  hoofs.  Listen!" 
There  was  a  furious  gallop  of  shod  horses, 
gradually  dying  into  silence.  "Come  along," 
said  Hordene.  "We're  late  as  it  is.  We  shall 
know  all  about  it  on  the  ground."  "Anybody 
lost  a  tat?"  asked  Marish  cheerily  as  they 
reached  the  ground.  "No,  weVe  lost  you. 
Double  up.  You're  late  enough  as  it  is.  Get 
up  and  go  in.  The  teams  are  waiting." 
Marish  mounted  his  polo-pony  and  cantered 
across.  Hordene  watched  the  game  idly  for  a 
few  moments.  There  was  a  scrimmage,  a 
cloud  of  dust,  and  a  cessation  of  play,  and  a 
shouting  for  saises.  The  umpire  clattered  for- 
ward and  returned.  "What  has  happened?" 
"Marish!  Neck  broken!  Nobody's  fault. 
Pony  crossed  its  legs  and  came  down.  Game's 
stopped.  Thank  God,  he  hasn't  got  a  wife!" 
Again  Hordene  pondered  as  he  sat  on  his 
horse's  back.  "Under  any  circumstances  it 
[154] 


"SLEIPNER,"  LATE  "THURINDA" 


was  written  that  he  was  to  be  killed.  I  had  no 
interest  in  his  death,  and  he  had  his  warning, 
I  suppose.  I  can't  make  out  the  system  that 
this  infernal  mare  runs  under.  Why  him? 
Anyway,  I'll  shoot  her."  He  looked  at  Thur- 
inda,  the  calm-eyed,  the  beautiful,  and  re- 
pented.  "No!   I'll  sell  her." 

"What  in  the  world  has  happened  to 
Thurinda  that  Hordene  is  so  keen  on  getting 
rid  of  her?"  was  the  general  question.  "I  want 
money,"  said  Hordene  unblushingly,  and  the 
few  who  knew  how  his  accounts  stood  saw  that 
this  was  a  varnished  lie.  But  they  held  their 
peace  because  of  the  great  love  and  trust  that 
exists  among  the  ancient  and  honourable  fra- 
ternity of  sportsmen. 

"There's  nothing  wrong  with  her,"  explained 
Hordene.  "Try  her  as  much  as  you  like,  but 
let  her  stay  in  my  stable  until  you've  made 
up  your  mind  one  way  or  the  other.  Nine  hun- 
dred's my  price." 

"I'll  take  her  at  that,"  quoth  a  red-haired 
subaltern,  nicknamed  Carrots,  later  Gaja,  and 
then,  for  brevity's  snke,  Guj.  "Let  me  have 
[155]  ' 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


her  out  this  afternoon.  I  want  her  more  for 
hacking  than  anything  else." 

Guj  tried  Thurinda  exhaustively  and  had 
no  fault  to  find  with  her.  "She's  all  right,"  he 
said  briefly.  "I'll  take  her.  It's  a  cash  deal." 
"Virtuous  Guj !"  said  Hordene,  pocketing  the 
cheque.  "If  you  go  on  like  this  you'll  be 
loved  and  respected  by  all  who  know  you." 

A  week  later  Guj  insisted  that  Hordene 
should  accompany  him  on  a  ride.  They  can- 
tered merrily  for  a  time.  Then  said  the  subal- 
tern :  "Listen  to  the  mare's  beat  a  minute,  will 
you?  Seems  to  me  that  you've  sold  me  two 
horses." 

Behind  the  mare  was  plainly  audible  the 
cadence  of  a  swiftly  trotting  horse.  "D'you 
hear  anything?"  said  Guj.  "No — nothing  but 
the  regular  triplet,"  said  Hordene;  and  he  lied 
when  he  answered.  Guj  looked  at  him  keenly 
and  said  nothing.  Two  or  three  months  passed 
and  Hordene  was  perplexed  to  see  his  old 
property  running,  and  running  well,  under  the 
curious  title  of  "Sleipner — late  Thurinda."  He 
consulted  the  Great  Major,  who  said :  "I  don't 
[156] 


"SLEIPNER,"  LATE  "THURINDA" 

know  a  horse  called  Sleipner,  but  I  know  of 
one.  He  was  a  northern  bred,  and  belonged  to 
Odin."  "A  mythological  beast?"  "Exactly.  Like 
Bucephalus  and  the  rest  of  'em.  He  was  a 
great  horse.  I  wish  I  had  some  of  his  get  in 
my  stable."  "Why?"  "Because  he  had  eight 
legs.  When  he  had  used  up  one  set,  he  let 
down  the  other  four  to  come  up  the  straight 
on.  Stewards  were  lenient  in  those  days.  Now 
it's  all  you  can  do  to  get  a  crock  with  three 
sound  legs." 

Hordene  cursed  the  red-haired  Guj  in  his 
heart  for  finding  out  the  mare's  peculiarity. 
Then  he  cursed  the  dead  man  Jale  for  his  ri- 
diculous interference  with  a  free  gift.  "If  it 
was  given — it  was  given,"  said  Hordene,  "and 
he  has  no  right  to  come  messing  about  after 
it."  When  Guj  and  he  next  met,  he  enquired 
tenderly  after  Thurinda.  The  red-haired  subal- 
tern, impassive  as  usual,  answered:  "I've  shot 
her."  "Well — you  know  your  own  affairs 
best,"  said  Hordene.  "You've  given  yourself 
away,"  said  Guj.  "What  makes  you  think  I 
shot  a  sound  horse?  She  might  have  been  bit- 
[157] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


ten  hy  a  mad  dog,  or  lamed."  "You  didn't 
say  that."  "No,  I  didn't,  because  I've  a  notion 
that  you  knew  what  was  wrong  with  her." 
"Wrong  with  her!    She  was  as  sound  as  a 

bell  "    "I  know  that.    Don't  pretend  to 

misunderstand.  You'll  believe  me,  and  I'll  be- 
lieve you  in  this  show;  but  no  one  else  will 
believe  us.  That  mare  was  a  bally  nightmare." 
"Go  on,"  said  Hordene.  "I  stuck  the  noise 
of  the  other  horse  as  long  as  I  could,  and  called 
her  Sleipner  on  the  strength  of  it.  Sleipner 
was  a  stallion,  but  that's  a  detail.  When  it 
got  to  interfering  with  every  race  I  rode  it 
was  more  than  I  could  stick.  I  took  her  off 
racing,  and,  on  my  honour,  since  that  time  I've 
been  nearly  driven  out  of  my  mind  by  a  grey 
and  nutmeg  pony.  It  used  to  trot  round  my 
quarters  at  night,  fool  about  the  Mall,  and 
graze  about  the  compound.  You  know  that 
pony.  It  isn't  a  pony  to  catch  or  ride  or  hit,  is 
it?"  "No,"  said  Hordene;  "I've  seen  it."  "Sol 
shot  Thurinda;  that  was  a  thousand  rupees  out 
of  my  pocket.  And  old  Stiffer,  who's  got  his 
new  crematorium  in  full  blast,  cremated  her. 
[158] 


"SLEIPNER,"  LATE  "THURINDA" 


I  say,  what  was  the  matter  with  the  mare? 
Was  she  bewitched?" 

Hordene  told  the  story  of  the  gift,  which 
Guj  heard  out  to  the  end.  "Now,  that's  a  nice 
sort  of  yarn  to  tell  in  a  messroom,  isn't  it? 
They'd  call  it  jumps  or  insanity,"  said  Guj. 
"There's  no  reason  in  it.  It  doesn't  lead  up 
to  anything.  It  only  killed  poor  Marish  and 
made  you  stick  me  with  the  mare;  and  yet  it's 
true.  Are  you  mad  or  drunk,  or  am  I  ?  That's 
the  only  explanation."  "Can't  be  drunk  for 
nine  months  on  end,  and  madness  would  show 
in  that  time,"  said  Hordene. 

"All  right,"  said  Guj  recklessly,  going  to 
the  window.  "I'll  lay  that  ghost."  He  leaned 
out  into  the  night  and  shouted:  "Jale!  Jale! 
Jale!  Wherever  you  are."  There  was  a 
pause  and  then  up  the  compound-drive  came 
the  clatter  of  a  horse's  feet.  The  red-haired 
subaltern  blanched  under  his  freckles  to  the 
colour  of  glycerine  soap.  "Thurinda's  dead," 
he  muttered,  "and — and  all  bets  are  off.  Go 
back  to  your  grave  again." 

Hordene  was  watching  him  open-mouthed. 
[159] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


"Now  bring  me  a  strait- jacket  or  a  glass  of 
brandy,"  said  Guj.  "That's  enough  to  turn 
a  man's  hair  white.  What  did  the  poor  wretch 
mean  by  knocking  about  the  earth?" 

"Don't  know,"  whispered  Hordene  hoarsely. 
"Let's  get  over  to  the  Club.  I'm  feeling  a  bit 
shaky." 


[160] 


A  SUPPLEMENTARY  CHAPTER* 


Shall  I  not  one  day  remember  thy  Bower — 
One  da,y  when  all  days  are  one  day  to  me? 

Thinking  I  stirred  not  and  yet  had  the  power, 
Yearning — ah,  God,  if  again  it  might  be ! 

— The  Song  of  the  Bower. 


HIS  is  a  base  betrayal  of  confidence, 


but  the  sin  is  Mrs.  Hauksbee's  and  not 


If  you  remember  a  certain  foolish 


tale  called  "The  Education  of  Otis  Yeere," 
you  will  not  forget  that  Mrs.  Mallowe  laughed 
at  the  wrong  time,  which  was  a  single,  and  at 
Mrs.  Hauksbee,  which  was  a  double,  offence. 
An  experiment  had  gone  wrong,  and  it  seems 
that  Mrs.  Mallowe  had  said  some  quaint  things 
about  the  experimentrix. 


mine. 


♦"Week's  News,"  May  19,  1888. 

[161] 


ABAFT  THE  FUN? 

"I  am  not  angry,"  said  Mrs.  He 
I  admire  Polly  in  spite  of  her  ev 
me.  But  I  shall  wait — I  shall  i 
frog  footman  in  Alice  in  Won 
Providence  will  deliver  Polly  in1 
It  always  does  if  you  wait."  And 
to  vex  the  soul  of  the  "Hawley  be 
that  she  is  singularly  "uninstrui 
like."  He  got  that  first  word  ou 
novel.  I  do  not  know  what  it  m 
prepared  to  make  an  affidavit  be 
lector  that  it  does  not  mean  Mrs. 

Mrs.  Hauksbee's  ideas  of  wail 
liberal.  She  told  the  "Hawley 
dared  not  tell  Mrs.  Reiver  that 
intellectual  woman  with  a  gift  f 
men,"  and  she  offered  another  ma 
if  he  would  repeat  the  same  thin^ 
ears.    But  he  said:    "Timeo  Da 


A  SUPPLEMENTARY  CHAPT 


and  he  wore  jharun  coats,  like  "the  s 
rivers  that  roll  their  sulphurous  torrents 
Yahek,  in  the  realms  of  the  Boreal  Pole, 
made  your  temples  throb  when  seen  ea 
the  morning.  I  will  introduce  him  t< 
some  day  if  all  goes  well.  He  is  worth  ] 
ing. 

Unpleasant  things  have  already  been 
ten  about  Mrs.  Reiver  in  other  places. 

She  was  a  person  without  invention, 
used  to  get  her  ideas  from  the  men  she 
tured,  and  this  led  to  some  eccentric  chan^ 
character.  For  a  month  or  two  she  wou 
a  la  Madonna,  and  try  Theo  for  a  chai 
she  fancied  Theo's  ways  suited  her  b( 
Then  she  would  attempt  the  dark  and 
Lilith,  and  so  and  so  on,  exactly  as  sh 
absorbed  the  new  notion.  But  there  w 
ways  Mrs.  Reiver — hard,  selfish,  stupid 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

thing  in  the  exhibition.  But  that,  thank 
Heaven,  is  getting  old." 

There  was  a  Fancy  Ball  at  Government 
House  and  Mrs.  Reiver  came  attired  in  some 
sort  of  '98  costume,  with  her  hair  pulled  up  to 
the  top  of  her  head,  showing  the  clear  outline 
on  the  back  of  the  neck  like  the  Recamier  en- 
gravings. Mrs.  Hauksbee  had  chosen  to  be 
loud,  not  to  say  vulgar,  that  evening,  and  went 
as  The  Black  Death — a  curious  arrangement 
of  barred  velvet,  black  domino  and  flame- 
coloured  satin  puffery  coming  up  to  the  neck 
and  the  wrists,  with  one  of  those  shrieking 
keel-backed  cicalas  in  the  hair.  The  scream  of 
the  creature  made  people  jump.  It  sounded  so 
unearthly  in  a  ballroom. 

I  heard  her  say  to  some  one:  "Let  me  in- 
troduce you  to  Madame  Recamier,"  and  I  saw 
a  man  dressed  as  Autolycus  bowing  to  Mrs. 
Reiver,  while  The  Black  Death  looked  more 
than  usually  saintly.  It  was  a  very  pleasant 
evening,  and  Autolycus  and  Madame  Recam- 
ier— I  heard  her  ask  Autolycus  who  Madame 
Recamier  was,  by  the  way — danced  together 
[  164] 


A  SUPPLEMENTARY  CHAPTER 


ever  so  much.  Mrs.  Hauksbee  was  in  a  medi- 
tative mood,  but  she  laughed  once  or  twice  in 
the  back  of  her  throat,  and  that  meant  trouble. 

Autolycus  was  Trewinnard,  the  man  whom 
Mrs.  Mallowe  had  told  Mrs.  Hauksbee  about 
— the  Platonic  Paragon,  as  Mrs.  Hauksbee 
called  him.  He  was  amiable,  but  his  mous- 
tache hid  his  mouth,  and  so  he  did  not  explain 
himself  all  at  once.  If  you  stared  at  him,  he 
turned  his  eyes  away,  and  through  the  rest 
of  the  dinner  kept  looking  at  you  to  see 
whether  you  were  looking  again.  He  took 
stares  as  a  tribute  to  his  merits,  which  were 
generally  known  and  recognised.  When  he 
played  billiards  he  apologised  at  length  be- 
tween each  bad  stroke,  and  explained  what 
would  have  happened  if  the  red  had  been  some- 
where else,  or  the  bearer  had  trimmed  the  third 
lamp,  or  the  wind  hadn't  made  the  door  bang. 
Also  he  wriggled  in  his  chair  more  than  was 
becoming  to  one  of  his  inches.  Little  men 
may  wriggle  and  fidget  without  attracting 
notice.  It  doesn't  suit  big-framed  men.  He 
was  the  Main  Girder  Boom  of  the  Kutcha, 
[165] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

Pukka,  Bundobust  and  Benaoti  Department 
and  corresponded  direct  with  the  Three  Taped 
Bashaw.  Every  one  knows  what  that  means. 
The  men  in  his  own  office  said  that  where  any- 
thing was  to  be  gained,  even  temporarily,  he 
would  never  hesitate  for  a  moment  over  hand- 
ing up  a  subordinate  to  be  hanged  and  drawn 
and  quartered.  He  didn't  back  up  his  under- 
lings, and  for  that  reason  they  dreaded  taking 
responsibility  on  their  shoulders,  and  the 
strength  of  the  Department  was  crippled. 

A  weak  Department  can,  and  often  does,  do 
a  power  of  good  work  simply  because  its  chief 
sees  it  through  thick  and  thin.  Mistakes 
may  be  born  of  this  policy,  but  it  is  safe  and 
sounder  than  giving  orders  which  may  be  read 
in  two  ways  and  reserving  to  yourself  the  right 
of  interpretation  according  to  subsequent  fail- 
ure or  success.  Offices  prefer  administration 
to  diplomacy.   They  are  very  like  Empires. 

Hatchett  of  the  Almirah  and  Thannicutch — 
a  vicious  little  three-cornered  Department  that 
was  always  stamping  on  the  toes  of  the  Elect 
— had  the  fairest  estimate  of  Trewinnard,  when 
[160] 


A  SUPPLEMENTARY  CHAPTER 

he  said:  "I  don't  believe  he  is  as  good  as  he 
is."  They  always  quoted  that  verdict  as  an 
instance  of  the  blind  jealousy  of  the  Uncov- 
enanted,  but  Hatchett  was  quite  right.  Tre- 
winnard  was  just  as  good  and  no  better  than 
Mrs.  Mallowe  could  make  him;  and  she  had 
been  engaged  on  the  work  for  three  years. 
Hatchett  has  a  narrow-minded  partiality  for 
the  more  than  naked — the  anatomised  Truth 
— but  he  can  gauge  a  man. 

Trewinnard  had  been  spoilt  by  over-much 
petting,  and  the  devil  of  vanity  that  rides  nine 
hundred  and  ninety-nine  men  out  of  a  thousand 
made  him  behave  as  he  did.  He  had  been  too 
long  one  woman's  property;  and  that  belief 
will  sometimes  drive  a  man  to  throw  the  best 
things  in  the  world  behind  him,  from  rank 
perversity.  Perhaps  he  only  meant  to  stray 
temporarily  and  then  return,  but  in  arranging 
for  this  excursion  he  misunderstood  both  Mrs. 
Mallowe  and  Mrs.  Reiver.  The  one  made  no 
sign,  she  would  have  died  first;  and  the  other 
— well,  the  high-falutin  mindsome  lay  was  her 
craze  for  the  time  being.  She  had  never  tried 
[167] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

it  before  and  several  men  had  hinted  that  it 
would  eminently  become  her.  Trewinnard 
was  in  himself  pleasant,  with  the  great  merit 
of  belonging  to  somebody  else.  He  was  what 
they  call  "intellectual,"  and  vain  to  the  mar- 
row. Mrs.  Reiver  returned  his  lead  in  the  first, 
and  hopelessly  out-trumped  him  in  the  second 
suit.  Put  down  all  that  comes  after  this  to 
Providence  or  The  Black  Death. 

Trewinnard  never  realised  how  far  he  had 
fallen  from  his  allegiance  till  Mrs.  Reiver  re- 
ferred to  some  official  matter  that  he  had  been 
telling  her  about  as  "ours."  He  remembered 
then  how  that  word  had  been  sacred  to  Mrs. 
Mallowe  and  how  she  had  asked  his  permission 
to  use  it.  Opium  is  intoxicating,  and  so  is 
whisky,  but  more  intoxicating  than  either  to 
a  certain  build  of  mind  is  the  first  occasion 
on  which  a  woman — especially  if  she  have  asked 
leave  for  the  "honour" — identifies  herself  with 
a  man's  work.  The  second  time  is  not  so 
pleasant.  The  answer  has  been  given  before, 
and  the  treachery  comes  to  the  top  and  tastes 
coppery  in  the  mouth. 

[168] 


A  SUPPLEMENTARY  CHAPTER 

Trewinnard  swallowed  the  shame — he  felt 
dimly  that  he  was  not  doing  Mrs.  Reiver  any 
great  wrong  by  untruth — and  told  and  told 
and  continued  to  tell,  for  the  snare  of  this  form 
of  open-heartedness  is  that  no  man,  unless  he 
be  a  consummate  liar,  knows  where  to  stop. 
The  office  door  of  all  others  must  be  either  open 
wide  or  shut  tight  with  a  shaprassi  to  keep  off 
callers. 

Mrs.  Mallowe  made  no  sign  to  show  that  she 
felt  Trewinnard's  desertion  till  a  piece  of  in- 
formation that  could  only  have  come  from  one 
quarter  ran  about  Simla  like  quicksilver.  She 
met  Trewinnard  at  a  dinner.  "Choose  your 
confidantes  better,  Harold,"  she  whispered  as 
she  passed  him  in  the  drawing-room.  He 
turned  salmon-colour,  and  swore  very  hard 
to  himself  that  Babu  Durga  Charan  Laha 
must  go — must  go — must  go.  He  almost  be- 
lieved in  that  grey-headed  old  oyster's  guilt. 

And  so  another  of  those  upside-down  trage- 
dies that  we  call  a  Simla  Season  wore  through 
to  the  end — from  the  Birthday  Ball  to  the 
"tripping"  to  Naldera  and  Kotghar.  And 
[169] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

fools  gave  feasts  and  wise  men  ate  them,  and 
they  were  bidden  to  the  wedding  and  sat  down 
to  bake,  and  those  who  had  nuts  had  no  teeth 
and  they  staked  the  substance  for  the  shadow, 
and  carried  coals  to  Newcastle,  and  in  the  dark 
all  cats  were  grey,  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  the 
great  Cure  of  Meudon. 

Late  in  the  year  there  developed  itself  a 
battle-royal  between  the  K.P.B.  and  B.  De- 
partment and  the  Almirah  and  Thannicutch. 
Three  columns  of  this  paper  would  be  needed 
to  supply  you  with  the  outlines  of  the  difficulty; 
and  then  you  would  not  be  grateful.  Hat- 
chett  snuffed  the  fray  from  afar  and  went  into 
it  with  his  teeth  bared  to  the  gums,  while  his 
Department  stood  behind  him  solid  to  a  man. 
They  believed  in  him,  and  their  answer  to  the 
fury  of  men  who  detested  him  was :  "All!  But 
you'll  admit  he's  d — d  right  in  what  he  says." 

"The  head  of  Trewinnard  in  a  Government 
Resolution,"  said  Hatchett,  and  he  told  the 
daftri  to  put  a  new  pad  on  his  blotter,  and 
smiled  a  bleak  smile  as  he  spread  out  his  notes. 
[170] 


A  SUPPLEMENTARY  CHAPTER 

Hatchett  is  a  Thug  in  his  systematic  way  of 
butchering  a  man's  reputation. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  asked  Tre- 
winnard's  Department.  "Sit  tight,"  said 
Trewinnard,  which  was  tantamount  to  saying 
"Lord  knows."  The  Department  groaned  and 
said:  "Which  of  us  poor  beggars  is  to  be 
Jonahed  this  time?"  They  knew  Trewinnard's 
vice. 

The  dispute  was  essentially  not  one  for  the 
K.P.B.  and  B.  under  its  then  direction  to  fight 
out.  It  should  have  been  compromised,  or 
at  the  worst  sent  up  to  the  Supreme  Govern- 
ment with  a  private  and  confidential  note 
directing  justice  into  the  proper  paths. 

Some  people  say  that  the  Supreme  Govern- 
ment is  the  Devil.  It  is  more  like  the  Deep 
Sea.  Anything  that  you  throw  into  it  disap- 
pears for  weeks,  and  comes  to  light  hacked 
and  furred  at  the  edges,  crusted  with  weeds 
and  shells  and  almost  unrecognisable.  The 
bold  man  who  would  dare  to  give  it  a  file  of 
love-letters  would  be  amply  rewarded.  It 
would  overlay  them  with  original  comments 
[171] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

and  marginal  notes,  and  work  them  piecemeal 
into  D.  O.  dockets.  Few  things,  from  a  setter 
or  a  whirlpool  to  a  sausage-machine  or  a 
hatching  hen,  are  more  interesting  and  peculiar 
than  the  Supreme  Government. 

"What  shall  we  do?"  said  Trewinnard,  who 
had  fallen  from  grace  into  sin.  "Fight,"  said 
Mrs.  Reiver,  or  words  to  that  effect;  and  no 
one  can  say  how  far  aimless  desire  to  test  her 
powers,  and  how  far  belief  in  the  man  she  had 
brought  to  her  feet  prompted  the  judgment. 
Of  the  merits  of  the  case  she  knew  just  as  much 
as  any  ayah. 

Then  Mrs.  Mallowe,  upon  an  evil  word  that 
went  through  Simla,  put  on  her  visiting-garb 
and  attired  herself  for  the  sacrifice,  and  went 
to  call — to  call  upon  Mrs.  Reiver,  knowing 
what  the  torture  would  be.  From  half-past 
twelve  till  twenty-five  minutes  to  two  she  sat, 
her  hand  upon  her  cardcase,  and  let  Mrs. 
Reiver  stab  at  her,  all  for  the  sake  of  the  in- 
formation. Mrs.  Reiver  double-acted  her  part, 
but  she  played  into  Mrs.  Mallowe's  hand  by 
this  defect.  The  assumptions  of  ownership, 
[172] 


A  SUPPLEMENTARY  CHAPTER 


the  little  intentional  slips,  were  overdone,  and 
so  also  was  the  pretence  of  intimate  knowledge. 
Mrs.  Mallowe  never  winced.  She  repeated  to 
herself :  "And  he  has  trusted  this — this  Thing. 
She  knows  nothing  and  she  cares  nothing,  and 
she  has  digged  this  trap  for  him."  The  main 
feature  of  the  case  was  abundantly  clear.  Tre- 
winnard,  whose  capacities  Mrs.  Mallowe  knew 
to  the  utmost  farthing,  to  whom  public  and 
departmental  petting  were  as  the  breath  of  his 
delicately-cut  nostrils — Trewinnard,  with  his 
nervous  dread  of  dispraise,  was  to  be  pitted 
against  the  Paul  de  Cassagnac  of  the  Almirah 
and  Thannicutch — the  unspeakable  Hatchett, 
who  fought  with  the  venom  of  a  woman  and 
the  skill  of  a  Red  Indian.  Unless  his  cause 
was  triply  just,  Trewinnard  was  already 
under  the  guillotine,  and  if  he  had  been  under 
this  "Thing's"  dominance,  small  hope  for  the 
justice  of  his  case.  "Oh,  why  did  I  let  him  go 
without  putting  out  a  hand  to  fetch  him  back?" 
said  Mrs.  Mallowe,  as  she  got  into  her  'rick- 
shaw. 

Now,  Tim,  her  fox-terrier,  is  the  only  person 
[178] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

who  knows  what  Mrs.  Mallowe  did  that  aft- 
ernoon, and  as  I  found  him  loafing  on  the  Mall 
in  a  very  disconsolate  condition  and  as  he  rec- 
ognised me  effusively  and  suggested  going  for 
a  monkey-hunt — a  thing  he  had  never  done 
before — my  impression  is  that  Mrs.  Mallowe 
stayed  at  home  till  the  light  fell  and  thought. 
If  she  did  this,  it  is  of  course  hopeless  to  ac- 
count for  her  actions.  So  3rou  must  fill  in  the 
gap  for  yourself. 

That  evening  it  rained  heavily,  and  horses 
mired  their  riders.  But  not  one  of  all  the  habits 
was  so  plastered  with  mud  as  the  habit  of  Mrs. 
Mallowe  when  she  pulled  up  under  the  scrub 
oaks  and  sent  in  her  name  by  the  astounded 
bearer  to  Trewinnard.  "Folly!  downright 
folly!"  she  said  as  she  sat  in  the  steam  of  the 
dripping  horse.  "But  it's  all  a  horrible  jumble 
together." 

It  may  be  as  well  to  mention  that  ladies  do 
not  usually  call  upon  bachelors  at  their  houses. 
Bachelors  would  scream  and  run  away.  Tre- 
winnard came  into  the  light  of  the  verandah 
with  a  nervous,  undecided  smile  upon  his  lips, 
[174] 


A  SUPPLEMENTARY  CHAPTER 


and  he  wished — in  the  bottomless  bottom  of  his 
bad  heart — he  wished  that  Mrs.  Reiver  was 
there  to  see.  A  minute  later  he  was  profoundly 
glad  that  he  was  alone,  for  Mrs.  Mallowe  was 
standing  in  his  office  room  and  calling  him 
names  that  reflected  no  credit  on  his  intellect. 
"What  have  you  done?  What  have  you  said?'* 
she  asked.  "Be  quick!  Be  quick!  And  have  the 
horse  led  round  to  the  back.  Can  you  speak? 
What  have  you  written?  Show  me!" 

She  had  interrupted  him  in  the  middle  of 
what  he  was  pleased  to  call  his  reply;  for 
Hatchett's  first  shell  had  already  fallen  in  the 
camp.  He  stood  back  and  offered  her  the  seat 
at  the  duftar  table.  Her  elbow  left  a  great 
wet  stain  on  the  baize,  for  she  was  soaked 
through  and  through. 

"Say  exactly  how  the  matter  stands,"  she 
said,  and  laughed  a  weak  little  laugh,  which 
emboldened  Trewinnard  to  say  loftily:  "Par- 
don me,  Mrs.  Mallowe,  but  I  hardly  recognise 
your  " 

"Idiot!  Will  you  show  me  the  papers,  will 
you  speak,  and  will  you  be  quick?" 

[175] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

Her  most  reverent  admirers  would  hardly 
have  recognised  the  soft-spoken,  slow-gestured, 
quiet-eyed  Mrs.  Mallowe  in  the  indignant 
woman  who  was  dramming  on  Trewinnard's 
desk.  He  submitted  to  the  voice  of  authority, 
as  he  had  submitted  in  the  old  times,  and  ex- 
plained as  quickly  as  might  be  the  cause  of  the 
war  between  the  two  Departments.  In  con- 
clusion he  handed  over  the  rough  sheets  of  his 
reply.  As  she  read  he  watched  her  with  the 
expectant  sickly  half-smile  of  the  unaccus- 
tomed writer  who  is  doubtful  of  the  success  of 
his  work.  And  another  smile  followed,  but 
died  away  as  he  saw  Mrs.  Mallowe  read  his 
production.  All  the  old  phrases  out  of  which 
she  had  so  carefully  drilled  him  had  returned ; 
the  unpruned  fluency  of  diction  was  there,  the 
more  luxuriant  for  being  so  long  cut  back;  the 
reckless  riotousness  of  assertion  that  sacrificed 
all — even  the  vital  truth  that  Hatchett  would 
be  so  sure  to  take  advantage  of — for  the  sake 
of  scoring  a  point,  was  there ;  and  through  and 
between  every  line  ran  the  weak,  wilful  vanity 
of  the  man.  Mrs.  Mallowe's  mouth  hardened. 
[176] 


A  SUPPLEMENTARY  CHAPTER 


"And  you  wrote  this!"  she  said.  Then  to 
herself:   "He  wrote  this!" 

Trewinnard  stepped  forward  with  a  gesture 
habitual  to  him  when  he  wished  to  explain. 
Mrs.  Reiver  had  never  asked  for  explanations. 
She  had  told  him  that  all  his  ways  were  perfect. 
Therefore  he  loved  her. 

Mrs.  Mallowe  tore  up  the  papers  one  by  one, 
saying  as  she  did  so:  "You  were  going  to  cross 
swords  with  Hatchett.  Do  you  know  your 
own  strength?   Oh,  Harold,  Harold,  it  is  too 

pitiable!    I  thought— I  thought  "  Then 

the  great  anger  that  had  been  growing  in  her 
broke  out,  and  she  cried :  "Oh,  you  fool!  You 
blind,  blind,  blind,  trumpery  fool!  Why  do  I 
help  you?  Why  do  I  have  anything  to  do 
with  you?  You  miserable  man!  Sit  down 
and  write  as  I  dictate.  Quickly !  And  I  had 
:hosen  you  out  of  a  hundred  other  men!  Write! 
It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  be  found  out  by  a 
mere  unseeing  male — Thackeray  has  said  it. 
It  is  worse,  far  worse,  to  be  found  out  by  a 
woman,  and  in  that  hour  after  long  years  to 
discover  her  worth.  For  ten  minutes  Tre- 
[177] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


winnard's  pen  scratched  across  the  paper,  and 
Mrs.  Mallowe  spoke.  "And  that  is  all,"  she 
said  bitterly.  "As  you  value  yourself — your 
noble,  honourable,  modest  self — keep  within 
that." 

But  that  was  not  all — by  any  means.  At 
least  as  far  as  Trewinnard  was  concerned. 

He  rose  from  his  chair  and  delivered  his  soul 
of  many  mad  and  futile  thoughts — such  things 
as  a  man  babbles  when  he  is  deserted  of  the 
gods,  has  missed  his  hold  upon  the  latch-door 
of  Opportunity — and  cannot  see  that  the  ways 
are  shut.  Mrs.  Mallowe  bore  with  him  to  the 
end,  and  he  stood  before  her — no  enviable  crea- 
ture to  look  upon. 

"A  cur  as  well  as  a  fool!"  she  said.  "Will 
you  be  good  enough  to  tell  them  to  bring  my 
horse?  I  do  not  trust  to  your  honour — you 
have  none — but  I  believe  that  your  sense  of 
shame  will  keep  you  from  speaking  of  my 
visit." 

So  he  was  left  in  the  verandah  crying  "Come 
back"  like  a  distracted  guinea-fowl. 

****** 

[178] 


A  SUPPLEMENTARY  CHAPTER 


"He's  done  us  in  the  eye,"  grunted  Hatchett 
as  he  perused  the  K.P.B.  and  B.  reply.  "Look 
at  the  cunning  of  the  brute  in  shifting  the 
issue  on  to  India  in  that  carneying,  blarneying 
way!  Only  wait  until  I  can  get  my  knife  into 
him  again.  I'll  stop  every  bolt-hole  before  the 
hunt  begins." 

****** 

Oh,  I  believe  I  have  forgotten  to  mention 
the  success  of  Mrs.  Hauksbee's  revenge.  It 
was  so  brilliant  and  overwhelming  that  she  had 
to  cry  in  Mrs.  Mallowe's  arms  for  the  better 
part  of  half  an  hour;  and  Mrs.  Mallowe  was 
just  as  bad,  though  she  thanked  Mrs.  Hauks- 
bee  several  times  in  the  course  of  the  inter- 
view, and  Mrs.  Hauksbee  said  that  she  would 
repent  and  reform,  and  Mrs.  Mallowe  said: 
"Hush,  dear,  hush !  I  don't  think  either  of  us 
had  anything  to  be  proud  of."  And  Mrs. 
Hauksbee  said:  "Oh,  but  I  didn't  mean  it, 
Polly,  I  didn't  mean  it!"  And  I  stood  with 
my  hat  in  my  hand  trying  to  make  two  very 
indignant  ladies  understand  that  the  bearer 
really  had  given  me  "salaam  bolta" 

That  was  an  evil  quarter  minute. 
[179] 


CHATAUQUAED* 


Tells  how  the  Professor  and  I  found  the 
Precious  Rediculouses  and  how  the}7  Chautauquaed 
at  us.  Puts  into  print  some  sentiments  better  left 
unrecorded,  and  proves  that  a  neglected  theory 
will  blossom  in  congenial  soil.  Contains  fragments 
of  three  lectures  and  a  confession. 

"But  these,  in  spite  of  careful  dirt, 

Are  neither  green  nor  sappy; 
Half  conscious  of  the  garden  squirt, 

The  Spendlings  look  unhappy." 

OUT  of  the  silence  under  the  apple- 
trees  the  Professor  spake.   One  leg 
thrust  from  the  hammock  netting 
kicked  lazily  at  the  blue.   There  was 
the  crisp  crunch  of  teeth  in  an  apple  core. 

"Get  out  of  this,"  said  the  Professor  lazily. 
As  it  was  on  the  banks  of  the  Hughli,  so  on 


*No.  XXXIX  appeared  in  the  "Pioneer  Mail,"  Vol.  XVII, 
No.  14,  April  2,  1890. 

[180] 


CHATAUQUAED 

the  green  borders  of  the  Musquash  and  the 
Ohio — eternal  unrest,  and  the  insensate  desire 
to  go  ahead.  I  was  lapped  in  a  very  trance  of 
peace.  Even  the  apples  brought  no  indiges- 
tion. 

"Permanent  Nuisance,  what  is  the  matter 
now?"  I  grunted. 

"G'long  out  of  this  and  go  to  Niagara,"  said 
the  Professor  in  jerks.  "Spread  the  ink  of 
description  through  the  waters  of  the  Horse- 
shoe falls — buy  a  papoose  from  the  tame  wild 
Indian  who  lives  at  the  Clifton  House — take  a 
fifty-cent  ride  on  the  Maid  of  the  Mist — go 
over  the  falls  in  a  tub." 

"Seriously,  is  it  worth  the  trouble?  Every- 
body who  has  ever  been  within  fifty  miles  of 
the  falls  has  written  his  or  her  impressions. 
Everybody  who  has  never  seen  the  falls  knows 
all  about  them,  and — besides,  I  want  some 
more  apples.  They're  good  in  this  place,  ye 
big  fat  man,"  I  quoted. 

The  Professor  retired  into  his  hammock  for 
a  while.  Then  he  reappeared  flushed  with  a 
[181] 


ABAFT  THE  FUXXEL 


new  thought.   "If  you  want  to  see  something 
quite  new  let's  go  to  Chautauqua." 
"What's  that?" 

"Well,  it's  a  sort  of  institution.  It's  an 
educational  idea,  and  it  lives  on  the  borders 
of  a  lake  in  New  York  State.  I  think  you'll 
find  it  interesting ;  and  I  know  it  will  show  you 
a  new  side  of  American  life." 

In  blank  ignorance  I  consented.  Every- 
body is  anxious  that  I  should  see  as 
many  sides  of  American  life  as  possible. 
Here  in  the  East  they  demand  of  me 
what  I  thought  of  their  West.  I  dare 
not  answer  that  it  is  as  far  from  their  notions 
and  motives  as  Hindustan  from  Hoboken — 
that  the  West,  to  this  poor  thinking,  is  an 
America  which  has  no  kinship  with  its  neigh- 
bour. Therefore  I  congratulated  them  hypo- 
critically upon  "their  AVest,"  and  from  their 
lips  learn  that  there  is  yet  another  America, 
that  of  the  South — alien  and  distinct.  Into 
the  third  country,  alas !  I  shall  not  have  time 
to  penetrate.  The  newspapers  and  the  oratory 
of  the  day  will  tell  you  that  all  feeling  between 
[182] 


CHATAUQUAED 

the  North  and  South  is  extinct.  None  the  less 
the  Northerner,  outside  his  newspapers  and 
public  men,  has  a  healthy  contempt  for  the 
Southerner  which  the  latter  repays  by  what 
seems  very  like  a  deep-rooted  aversion  to  the 
Northerner.  I  have  learned  now  what  the  sen- 
timents of  the  great  American  nation  mean. 
The  North  speaks  in  the  name  of  the  country ; 
the  West  is  busy  developing  its  own  resources, 
and  the  Southerner  skulks  in  his  tents.  His 
opinions  do  not  count;  but  his  girls  are  very 
beautiful. 

So  the  Professor  and  I  took  a  tmin  and  went 
to  look  at  the  educational  idea.  From  sleepy, 
quiet  little  Musquash  we  rattled  through  the 
coal  and  iron  districts  of  Pennsylvania,  her 
coke  ovens  flaring  into  the  night  and  her  clam- 
orous foundries  waking  the  silence  of  the 
woods  in  which  they  lay.  Twenty  years  hence 
woods  and  cornfields  will  be  gone,  and  from 
Pittsburg  to  Shenango  all  will  be  smoky  black 
as  Bradford  and  Beverly:  for  each  factory  is 
drawing  to  itself  a  small  town,  and  year  by 
year  the  demand  for  rails  increases.  The  Pro- 
[183] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


fessor  held  forth  on  the  labour  question,  his 
remarks  being  prompted  by  the  sight  of  a 
train-load  of  Italians  and  Hungarians  going 
home  from  mending  a  bridge. 

"You  recollect  the  Burmese,"  said  he.  "The 
American  is  like  the  Burman  in  one  way.  He 
won't  do  heavy  manual  labour.  He  knows 
too  much.  Consequently  he  imports  the  alien 
to  be  his  hands — just  as  the  Burman  gets  hold 
of  the  Madrassi.  If  he  shuts  down  all  labour 
immigration  he  will  have  to  fill  up  his  own 
dams,  cut  his  cuttings  and  pile  his  own  em- 
bankments. The  American  citizen  won't  like 
that.  He  is  racially  unfit  to  be  a  labourer 
in  muttee.  He  can  invent,  buy,  sell  and  de- 
sign, but  he  cannot  waste  his  time  on  earth- 
works. Iswaste,  this  great  people  will  resume 
contract  labour  immigration  the  minute  they 
find  the  aliens  in  their  midst  are  not  sufficient 
for  the  jobs  in  hand.  If  the  alien  gives  them 
trouble  they  will  shoot  him." 

"Yes,  they  will  shoot  him,"  I  said,  remem- 
bering how  only  two  days  before  some  Hun- 
garians employed  on  a  line  near  Musquash 
[184], 


CHATAUQUAED 

had  seen  fit  to  strike  and  to  roll  down  rocks 
on  labourers  hired  to  take  their  places,  an 
amusement  which  caused  the  sheriff  to  open  fire 
with  a  revolver  and  wound  or  kill  (it  really 
does  not  much  matter  which)  two  or  three  of 
them.  Only  a  man  who  earns  ten  pence  a  day 
in  sunny  Italy  knows  how  to  howl  for  as  many 
shillings  in  America. 

The  composition  of  the  crowd  in  the  cars 
began  to  attract  my  attention.  There  were  very 
many  women  and  a  few  clergymen.  Where 
you  shall  find  these  two  together,  there  also 
shall  be  a  fad,  a  hobby,  a  theory,  or  a  mission. 

"These  people  are  going  to  Chautauqua," 
said  the  Professor.  "It's  a  sort  of  open-air 
college — they  call  it — but  you'll  understand 
things  better  when  you  arrive."  A  grim  twin- 
kle in  the  back  of  his  eye  awakened  all  my 
fears. 

"Can  you  get  anything  to  drink  there?" 
"No." 

"Are  you  allowed  to  smoke?" 
"Ye-es,  in  certain  places." 
"Are  we  staying  there  over  Sunday?" 
[185] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

"No"  This  very  emphatically. 

Feminine  shrieks  of  welcome:  "There's 
Sadie  I"  "Why,  Maimie,  is  that  yeou !"  " Alf 's 
in  the  smoker.  Did  you  bring  the  baby?"  and 
a  profligate  expenditure  of  kisses  between  bon- 
net and  bonnet  told  me  we  had  struck  a  gather- 
ing place  of  the  clans.  It  was  midnight.  They 
swept  us,  this  horde  of  clamouring  women,  into 
a  Black  Maria  omnibus  and  a  sumptuous  hotel 
close  to  the  borders  of  a  lake — Lake  Chautau- 
qua. Morning  showed  as  pleasant  a  place  of 
summer  pleasuring  as  ever  I  wish  to  see. 
Smooth-cut  lawns  of  velvet  grass,  studded 
with  tennis-courts,  surrounded  the  hotel  and 
ran  down  to  the  blue  waters,  which  were  dotted 
with  rowboats.  Young  men  in  wonderful 
blazers,  and  maidens  in  more  wonderful  tennis 
costumes;  women  attired  with  all  the  extrava- 
gance of  unthinking  Chicago  or  the  grace  of 
Washington  (which  is  Simla)  rilled  the 
grounds,  and  the  neat  French  nurses  and  ex- 
quisitely dressed  little  children  ran  about  to- 
gether. There  was  pickerel-fishing  for  such 
as  enjoyed  it;  a  bowling-alley,  unlimited  bath- 
[186]  ' 


CHATAUQUAED 

ing  and  a  toboggan,  besides  many  other  amuse- 
ments, all  winding  up  with  a  dance  or  a  concert 
at  night.  Women  dominated  the  sham  mediae- 
val hotel,  rampaged  about  the  passages,  flirted 
in  the  corridors  and  chased  unruly  children  off 
the  tennis-courts.  This  place  was  called  Lake- 
wood.  It  is  a  pleasant  place  for  the  unregen- 
erate. 

"We  go  up  the  lake  in  a  steamer  to  Chautau- 
qua," said  the  Professor. 

"But  I  want  to  stay  here.  This  is  what  I 
understand  and  like." 

"No,  you  don't.  You  must  come  along  and 
be  educated." 

All  the  shores  of  the  lake,  which  is  eighteen 
miles  long,  are  dotted  with  summer  hotels, 
camps,  boat-houses  and  pleasant  places  of  rest. 
You  go  there  with  all  your  family  to  fish  and 
to  flirt.  There  is  no  special  beauty  in  the 
landscape  of  tame  cultivated  hills  and  decor- 
ous, woolly  trees,  but  good  taste  and  wealth 
have  taken  the  place  in  hand,  trimmed  its  bor- 
ders and  made  it  altogether  delightful. 

The  institution  of  Chautauqua  is  the  largest 
[187] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

village  on  the  lake.  I  can't  hope  to  give  you 
an  idea  of  it,  but  try  to  imagine  the  Charles- 
ville  at  Mussoorie  magnified  ten  times  and  set 
down  in  the  midst  of  hundreds  of  tiny  little 
hill  houses,  each  different  from  its  neighbour, 
brightly  painted  and  constructed  of  wood. 
Add  something  of  the  peace  of  dull  Dalhousie, 
flavour  with  a  tincture  of  missions  and  the 
old  Polytechnic,  Cassell's  Self  Educator  and 
a  Monday  pop,  and  spread  the  result  out  flat 
on  the  shores  of  Naini  Tal  Lake,  which  you 
will  please  transport  to  the  Dun.  But  that 
does  not  half  describe  the  idea.  We  watched 
it  through  a  wicket  gate,  where  Ave  were  fur- 
nished with  a  red  ticket,  price  forty  cents,  and 
five  dollars  if  you  lost  it.  I  naturally  lost 
mine  on  the  spot  and  was  fined  accordingly. 

Once  inside  the  grounds  on  the  paths  that 
serpentined  round  the  myriad  cottages  I  was 
lost  in  admiration  of  scores  of  pretty  girls, 
most  of  them  with  little  books  under  their  arms, 
and  a  pretty  air  of  seriousness  on  their  faces. 
Then  I  stumbled  upon  an  elaborately  arranged 
mass  of  artificial  hillocks  surrounding  a  mud 
[188] 


CHATAUQUAED 

puddle  and  a  wormy  streak  of  slime  connect- 
ing it  with  another  mud  puddle.  Little  boul- 
ders topped  with  square  pieces  of  putty  were 
strewn  over  the  hillocks — evidently  with  inten- 
tion. When  I  hit  my  foot  against  one  such 
boulder  painted  "Jericho,"  I  demanded  infor- 
mation in  aggrieved  tones. 

"Hsh!"  said  the  Professor.  "It's  a  model 
of  Palestine — the  Holy  Land — done  to  scale 
and  all  that,  you  know." 

Two  young  people  were  flirting  on  the  top 
of  the  highest  mountain  overlooking  Jerusa- 
lem ;  the  mud  puddles  were  meant  for  the  Dead 
Sea  and  the  Sea  of  Galilee,  and  the  twisting 
gutter  was  the  Jordan.  A  small  boy  sat  on 
the  city  "Safed"  and  cast  his  line  into  Chautau- 
qua Lake.  On  the  whole  it  did  not  impress 
me.  The  hotel  was  filled  with  women,  and 
a  large  blackboard  in  the  main  hall  set  forth 
the  exercises  for  the  day.  It  seemed  that 
Chautauqua  was  a  sort  of  educational  syndi- 
cate, cum  hotel,  cum  (very  mild)  Rosherville. 
There  were  annually  classes  of  young  women 
and  young  men  who  studied  in  the  little  cot- 
[189] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

tages  for  two  or  three  months  in  the  year  and 
went  away  to  self-educate  themselves.  There 
were  other  classes  who  learned  things  by  cor- 
respondence, and  yet  other  classes  made  up  the 
teachers.  All  these  delights  I  had  missed,  but 
had  arrived  just  in  time  for  a  sort  of  debauch 
of  lectures  which  concluded  the  three  months' 
education.  The  syndicate  in  control  had  hired 
various  lecturers  whose  names  would  draw 
audiences,  and  these  men  were  lecturing  about 
the  labour  problem,  the  servant-girl  question, 
the  artistic  and  political  aspect  of  Greek  life, 
the  Pope  in  the  Middle  Ages  and  similar  sub- 
jects, in  all  of  which  young  women  do  naturally 
take  deep  delight.  Professor  Mahaffy  (what 
the  devil  was  he  doing  in  that  gallery?)  was 
the  Greek  art  side  man,  and  a  Dr.  Gunsaulus 
handled  the  Pope.  The  latter  I  loved  forth- 
with. He  had  been  to  some  gathering  on 
much  the  same  lines  as  the  Chautauqua  one, 
and  had  there  been  detected,  in  the  open  day- 
light, smoking  a  cigar.  One  whole  lighted 
cigar.  Then  his  congregation  or  his  class,  or 
the  mothers  of  both  of  them,  wished  to  know 
[190] 


CHATAUQUAED 

whether  this  was  the  sort  of  conduct  for  a 
man  professing  temperance.  I  have  not  heard 
Dr.  Gunsaulus  lecture,  but  he  must  be  a  good 
man.  Professor  Mahaffy  was  enjoying  him- 
self. I  sat  close  to  him  at  tiffin  and  heard  him 
arguing  with  an  American  professor  as  to  the 
merits  of  the  American  Constitution.  Both 
men  spoke  that  the  table  might  get  the  benefit 
of  their  wisdom,  whence  I  argued  that  even 
eminent  professors  are  eminently  human. 

"Now,  for  goodness'  sake,  behave  yourself," 
said  the  Professor.  "You  are  not  to  ask  the 
whereabouts  of  a  bar.  You  are  not  to  laugh 
at  anything  you  see,  and  you  are  not  to  go 
away  and  deride  this  Institution." 

Remember  that  advice.  But  I  was  virtuous 
throughout,  and  my  virtue  brought  its  own 
reward.  The  parlour  of  the  hotel  was  full  of 
committees  of  women;  some  of  them  were 
Methodist  Episcopalians,  some  were  Congre- 
gationalists,  and  some  were  United  Presby- 
terians ;  and  some  were  faith  healers  and  Chris- 
tian Scientists,  and  all  trotted  about  with  note- 
books in  their  hands  and  the  expression  of 
[191] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


Atlas  on  their  faces.  They  were  connected 
with  missions  to  the  heathen,  and  so  forth,  and 
their  deliberations  appeared  to  be  controlled 
by  a  male  missionary.  The  Professor  intro- 
duced me  to  one  of  them  as  their  friend  from 
India. 

"Indeed,"  said  she;  "and  of  what  denomi- 
nation are  you?" 

"I — I  live  in  India,"  I  murmured. 

"You  are  a  missionary,  then?" 

I  had  obeyed  the  Professor's  orders  all  too 
well.  "I  am  not  a  missionary,"  I  said,  with,  I 
trust,  a  decent  amount  of  regret  in  my  tones. 
She  dropped  me  and  I  went  to  find  the  Pro- 
fessor, who  had  cowardly  deserted  me,  and  I 
think  was  laughing  on  the  balcony.  It  is  very 
hard  to  persuade  a  denominational  American 
that  a  man  from  India  is  not  a  missionary.  The 
home-returned  preachers  very  naturally  convey 
the  impression  that  India  is  inhabited  solely  hy 
missionaries. 

I  heard  some  of  them  talking  and  saw  how, 
all  unconsciously,  they  were  hinting  the  thing 
which  was  not.  But  prejudice  governs  me 
[192] 


CHATAUQUAED 

against  my  will.  When  a  woman  looks  you  in 
the  face  and  pities  you  for  having  to  associate 
with  "heathen"  and  "idolaters"— Sikh  Sirdar 
of  the  north,  if  you  please,  Mahommedan  gen- 
tlemen and  the  simple-minded  J  at  of  the  Pun- 
jab— what  can  you  do? 

The  Professor  took  me  out  to  see  the  sights, 
and  lest  I  should  be  further  treated  as  a  de- 
nominational missionary  I  wrapped  myself  in 
tobacco  smoke.  This  ensures  respectful  treat- 
ment at  Chautauqua.  An  amphitheatre  capa- 
ble of  seating  five  thousand  people  is  the  cen- 
tre-point of  the  show.  Here  the  lecturers 
lecture  and  the  concerts  are  held,  and  from 
here  the  avenues  start.  Each  cottage  is  deco- 
rated according  to  the  taste  of  the  owner,  and 
is  full  of  girls.  The  verandahs  are  alive  with 
them;  thej^  fill  the  sinuous  walks;  they  hurry 
from  lecture  to  lecture,  hatless,  and  three  under 
one  sunshade;  they  retail  little  confidences 
walking  arm-in-arm;  they  giggle  for  all  the 
world  like  uneducated  maidens,  and  they  walk 
about  and  row  on  the  lake  with  their  very 
young  men.  The  lectures  are  arranged  to  suit 
[193] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

all  tastes.  I  got  hold  of  one  called  "The 
Eschatology  of  Our  Saviour."  It  set  itself 
to  prove  the  length,  breadth  and  temperature 
of  Hell  from  information  garnered  from  the 
New  Testament.  I  read  it  in  the  sunshine 
under  the  trees,  with  these  hundreds  of  pretty 
maidens  pretending  to  be  busy  all  round;  and 
it  did  not  seem  to  match  the  landscape.  Then 
I  studied  the  faces  of  the  crowd.  One-quarter 
were  old  and  worn ;  the  balance  were  young,  in- 
nocent, charming  and  frivolous.  I  wondered 
how  much  they  really  knew  or  cared  for  the 
art  side  of  Greek  life,  or  the  Pope  in  the  Mid- 
dle Ages;  and  how  much  for  the  young  men 
who  walked  with  them.  Also  what  their  ideas 
of  Hell  might  be.  We  entered  a  place  called 
a  museum  (all  the  shows  here  are  of  an  im- 
proving tendency),  which  had  evidently  been 
brought  together  by  feminine  hands,  so  jum- 
bled were  the  exhibits.  There  was  a  facsimile 
of  the  Rosetta  stone,  with  some  printed  popu- 
lar information;  an  Egyptian  camel  saddle, 
miscellaneous  truck  from  the  Holy  Land,  an- 
other model  of  the  same,  photographs  of  Rome, 
[194] 


CHATAUQUAED 

badly-blotched  drawings  of  volcanic  phe- 
nomena, the  head  of  the  pike  that  John  Brown 
took  to  Harper's  Ferry  that  time  his  soul 
went  marching-  on,  casts  of  doubtful  value,  and 
views  of  Chautauqua,  all  bundled  together 
without  the  faintest  attempt  at  arrangement, 
and  all  very  badly  labelled. 

It  was  the  apotheosis  of  Popular  Informa- 
tion. I  told  the  Professor  so,  and  he  said  I 
was  an  ass,  which  didn't  affect  the  statement 
in  the  least.  I  have  seen  museums  like 
Chautauqua  before,  and  well  I  know  what  they 
mean.  If  you  do  not  understand,  read  the 
first  part  of  Aurora  Leigh.  Lectures  on  the 
Chautauqua  stamp  I  have  heard  before.  Peo- 
ple don't  get  educated  that  way.  They  must 
dig  for  it,  and  cry  for  it,  and  sit  up  o'  nights 
for  it;  and  when  they  have  got  it  they  must 
call  it  by  another  name  or  their  struggle  is  of 
no  avail.  You  can  get  a  degree  from  this 
La™  Tennis  Tabernacle  of  all  the  arts  and 
sciences  at  Chautauqua.  Mercifully  the  students 
are  womenfolk,  and  if  they  marry  the  degree 
is  forgotten,  and  if  they  become  school-teachers 
[  195  ] 


ABAFT  THE  FUXNEL 

they  can  only  instruct  young  America  in  the 
art  of  mispronouncing  his  own  language.  And 
yet  so  great  is  the  perversity  of  the  American 
girl  that  she  can,  scorning  tennis  and  the  allure- 
ments of  boating,  work  herself  nearly  to  death 
over  the  skittles  of  archaeology  and  foreign 
tongues,  to  the  sorrow  of  all  her  friends. 

Late  that  evening  the  contemptuous  cour- 
tesy of  the  hotel  allotted  me  a  room  in  a  cottage 
of  quarter-inch  planking,  destitute  of  the  most 
essential  articles  of  toilette  furniture.  Ten 
shillings  a  day  was  the  price  of  this  shelter,  for 
Chautauqua  is  a  paying  institution.  I  heard 
the  Professor  next  door  banging  about  like 
a  big  jack-rabbit  in  a  very  small  packing-case. 
Presently  he  entered,  holding  between  dis- 
gusted finger  and  thumb  the  butt  end  of  a 
candle,  his  only  light,  and  this  in  a  house  that 
would  burn  quicker  than  cardboard  if  once 
lighted. 

"Isn't  it  shameful?   Isn't  it  atrocious?  A 
dak  bungalow  khansamah  wouldn't  dare  to 
give  me  a  raw  candle  to  go  to  bed  by.   I  say, 
[196] 


CHATAUQUAED 

when  you  describe  this  hole  rend  them  to 
pieces.    A  candle  stump!    Give  it  'em  hot." 

You  will  remember  the  Professor's  advice 
to  me  not  long  ago.  "  'Fessor,"  said  I  loftily 
(my  own  room  was  a  windowless  dog-kennel) , 
"this  is  unseemly.  We  are  now  in  the  most 
civilised  country  on  earth,  enjoying  the  ad- 
vantages of  an  Institootion  which  is  the  flower 
of  the  civilisation  of  the  nineteenth  century; 
and  yet  you  kick  up  a  fuss  over  being  obliged 
to  go  to  bed  by  the  stump  of  a  candle !  Think 
of  the  Pope  in  the  Middle  Ages.  Reflect  on 
the  art  side  of  Greek  life.  Remember  the 
Sabbath  day  to  keep  it  holy,  and  get  out  of 
this.    You're  filling  two-thirds  of  my  room." 

Apropos  of  Sabbath,  I  have  come  across 
some  lovely  reading  which  it  grieves  me  that 
I  have  not  preserved.  Chautauqua,  you  must 
know,  shuts  down  on  Sundays.  With  awful 
severity  an  eminent  clergyman  has  been  writ- 
ing to  the  papers  about  the  beauties  of  the  sys- 
tem. The  stalls  that  dispense  terrible  drinks  of 
Moxie,  typhoidal  milk-shakes  and  sulphuric- 
[197] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

acid-on-lime-bred  soda-water  are  stopped; 
boating  is  forbidden;  no  steamer  calls  at  the 
jetty,  and  the  nearest  railway  station  is  three 
miles  off,  and  you  can't  hire  a  conveyance ;  the 
barbers  must  not  shave  you,  and  no  milkman 
or  butcher  goes  his  rounds.  The  reverend  gen- 
tleman enjoys  this  (he  must  wear  a  beard) .  I 
forget  his  exact  words,  but  they  run:  "And 
thus,  thank  God,  no  one  can  supply  himself 
on  the  Lord's  day  with  the  luxuries  or  con- 
veniences that  he  has  neglected  to  procure  on 
Saturday."  Of  course,  if  you  happen  to  lin- 
ger inside  the  wicket  gate — verily  Chautauqua 
is  a  close  preserve — over  Sunday,  you  must 
bow  gracefully  to  the  rules  of  the  place.  But 
what  are  you  to  do  with  this  frame  of  mind? 
The  owner  of  it  would  send  missions  to  con- 
vert the  "heathen,"  or  would  convert  you  at 
ten  minutes'  notice;  and  yet  if  you  called  him 
a  heathen  and  an  idolater  he  would  probably 
be  very  much  offended. 

Oh,  my  friends,  I  have  been  to  one  source 
of  the  river  of  missionary  enterprise,  and  the 
waters  thereof  are  bitter — bitter  as  hate,  narrow 
[198] 


CHATAUQUAED 

as  the  grave!  Not  now  do  I  wonder  that  the 
missionary  in  the  East  is  at  times,  to  our  think- 
ing, a  little  intolerant  towards  beliefs  he  can- 
not understand  and  people  he  does  not  appre- 
ciate. Rather  it  is  a  mystery  to  me  that  these 
delegates  of  an  imperious  ecclesiasticism  have 
not  a  hundred  times  ere  this  provoked  murder 
and  fire  among  our  wards.  If  they  were  true 
to  the  iron  teachings  of  Centreville  or  Petumna 
or  Chunkhaven,  when  they  came  they  would 
have  done  so.  For  Centreville  or  Smithson 
or  Squeehawken  teach  the  only  true  creeds 
in  all  the  world,  and  to  err  from  their  tenets, 
as  laid  down  by  the  bishops  and  the  elders,  is 
damnation.  How  it  may  be  in  England  at  the 
centres  of  supply  I  cannot  tell,  but  shall  pres- 
ently learn.  Here  in  America  I  am  afraid  of 
these  grim  men  of  the  denominations,  who 
know  so  intimately  the  will  of  the  Lord  and 
enforce  it  to  the  uttermost.  Left  to  themselves 
they  would  prayerfully,  in  all  good  faith  and 
sincerity,  slide  gradually,  ere  a  hundred  years, 
from  the  mental  inquisitions  which  they  now 
work  with  some  success  to  an  institootion — be 
[199] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

sure  it  would  be  an  "institootion"  with  a  jour- 
nal of  its  own — not  far  different  from  what  the 
Torquemada  ruled  aforetime.  Does  this  seem 
extravagant?  I  have  watched  the  expression  on 
the  men's  faces  when  they  told  me  that  they 
would  rather  see  their  son  or  daughter  dead 
at  their  feet  than  doing  such  and  such  tilings — 
trampling  on  the  grass  on  a  Sunday,  or  some- 
thing equally  heinous — and  I  was  grateful  that 
the  law  of  men  stood  between  me  and  their  in- 
terpretation of  the  law  of  God.  They  would 
assuredly  slay  the  body  for  the  soul's  sake  and 
account  it  righteousness.  And  this  would  be- 
fall not  in  the  next  generation,  perhaps,  but 
in  the  next,  for  the  very  look  I  saw  in  a 
Eusufzai's  face  at  Peshawar  when  he  turned 
and  spat  in  my  tracks  I  have  seen  this  day  at 
Chautauqua  in  the  face  of  a  preacher.  The 
will  was  there,  but  not  the  power. 

The  Professor  went  up  the  lake  on  a  visit, 
taking  my  ticket  of  admission  with  him,  and 
I  found  a  child,  aged  seven,  fishing  with  a 
worm  and  pin,  and  spent  the  rest  of  the  after- 
noon in  his  company.  He  was  a  delightful 
[200] 


CHATAUQUAED 

young  citizen,  full  of  information  and  appar- 
ently ignorant  of  denominations.  We  caught 
sunfish  and  catfish  and  pickerel  together. 

The  trouble  began  when  I  attempted  to  es- 
cape through  the  wicket  on  the  jetty  and  let 
the  creeds  fight  it  out  among  themselves. 
Without  that  ticket  I  could  not  go,  unless  I 
paid  five  dollars.  That  was  the  rule  to  prevent 
people  cheating. 

"You  see,"  quoth  a  man  in  charge,  "you've 
no  idea  of  the  meanness  of  these  people.  Why, 
there  was  a  lady  this  season — a  prominent 
member  of  the  Baptist  connection — we  know, 
but  we  can't  prove  it  that  she  had  two  of  her 
hired  girls  in  a  cellar  when  the  grounds  were 
being  canvassed  for  the  annual  poll-tax  of  five 
dollars  a  head.  So  she  saved  ten  dollars.  We 
can't  be  too  careful  with  this  crowd.  You've 
got  to  produce  that  ticket  as  a  proof  that  you 
haven't  been  living  in  the  grounds  for  weeks 
and  weeks." 

"For  weeks  and  weeks  I"  The  blue  went  out 
of  the  sky  as  he  said  it.   "But  I  wouldn't  stay 
[201] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


here  for  one  week  if  I  could  help  it,"  I  an- 
swered. 

"No  more  would  I,"  he  said  earnestly. 

Returned  the  Professor  in  a  steamer,  and 
him  I  basely  left  to  make  explanations  about 
that  ticket,  while  I  returned  to  Lake  wood — 
the  nice  hotel  without  any  regulations.  I 
feared  that  I  should  be  kept  in  those  terrible 
grounds  for  the  rest  of  my  life. 

And  it  turned  out  an  hour  later  that  the 
same  fear  lay  upon  the  Professor  also.  He 
arrived  heated  but  exultant,  having  baffled  the 
combined  forces  of  all  the  denominations  and 
recovered  the  five-dollar  deposit.  "I  wouldn't 
go  inside  those  gates  for  anything,"  he  said. 
"I  waited  on  the  jetty.  What  do  you  think  of 
it  all?" 

"It  has  shown  me  a  new  side  of  American 
life,"  I  responded.  "I  never  want  to  see  it 
again — and  I'm  awfully  sorry  for  the  girls 
who  take  it  seriously.  I  suppose  the  bulk  of 
them  don't.  They  just  have  a  good  time.  But 
it  would  be  better  " 

"How?" 

[202] 


CHATAUQUAED 

"If  they  all  got  married  instead  of  pumping 
up  interest  in  a  bric-a-brac  museum  and  ad- 
vertised lectures,  and  having  their  names  in  the 
papers.  One  never  gets  to  believe  in  the 
proper  destiny  of  woman  until  one  sees  a 
thousand  of  'em  doing  something  different. 
I  don't  like  Chautauqua.  There's  something 
wrong  with  it,  and  I  haven't  time  to  find  out 
where.   But  it  is  wrong." 


[  203  ] 


THE  BOW  FLUME  CABLE-CAR* 

EE  those  things  yonder?"  He  looked 


the  good  people  of  San  Francisco  to  a  picnic 
somewhere  across  the  harbour.  The  stranger 
was  not  more  than  seven  feet  high.  His  face 
was  burnished  copper,  his  hands  and  beard 
were  fiery  red  and  his  eyes  a  baleful  blue.  He 
had  thrust  his  large  frame  into  a  suit  of  black 
clothes  which  made  no  pretensions  toward  fit- 
ting him,  and  his  cheek  was  distended  with 
plug-tobacco.  "Those  cars,"  he  said,  more  to 
himself  than  to  me,  "run  upon  a  concealed 
cable  worked  by  machinery,  and  that's  what 
broke  our  syndicate  at  Bow  Flume.  Concealed 
machinery,  no — concealed  ropes.    Don't  you 

♦"Turnovers,"  Vol.  VII. 


in  the  direction  of  the  Market  Street 
cable-cars  which,  moved  without 
any  visible  agency,  were  conveying 


[204] 


THE  BOW  FLUME  CABLE-CAR 


mix  yourself  with  them.  They  are  ontrust- 
worthy." 

"These  cars  work  comfortably,"  I  ventured. 
"They  run  over  people  now  and  then,  but  that 
doesn't  matter." 

"Certainly  not,  not  in  'Frisco — by  no  means. 
It's  different  out  yonder."  He  waved  a  palm- 
leaf  fan  in  the  direction  of  Mission  Dolores 
among  the  sandhills.  Then  without  a  moment's 
pause,  and  in  a  low  and  melancholy  voice,  he 
continued:  "Young  feller,  all  patent  machinery 
is  a  monopoly,  and  don't  you  try  to  bust  it  or 
else  it  will  bust  you.  'Bout  five  years  ago  I 
was  at  Bow  Flume — a  minin'-town  way 
back  yonder — beyond  the  Sacramento.  I  ran 
a  saloon  there  with  O'Grady  —  Howlin' 
O'Grady,  so  called  on  account  of  the  noise  he 
made  when  intoxicated.  I  never  christened 
my  saloon  any  high-soundin'  name,  but  owing 
to  my  happy  trick  of  firing  out  men  who  was 
too  full  of  bug- juice  and  disposed  to  be  pro- 
miscuous in  their  dealin's,  the  boys  called  it 
'The  Wake  Up  an  Git  Bar.'  O'Grady,  my 
partner,  was  an  unreasonable  inventorman. 
[205  ] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

He  invented  a  check  on  the  whisky  bar'ls  that 
wasn't  no  good  except  lettin'  the  whisky  run 
off  at  odd  times  and  shutting  down  when  a  man 
was  most  thirstiest.  I  remember  half  Bow 
Flume  city  firing  their  six-shooters  into  a  cask 
— and  Bourbon  at  that — which  was  refusing 
to  run  on  account  of  O'Grady's  patent  double- 
check  tap.  But  that  wasn't  what  I  started 
to  tell  you  about — not  by  a  long  ways. 
O'Grady  went  to  'Frisco  when  the  Bow  Flume 
saloon  was  booming.  He  hed  a  good  time  in 
'Frisco,  kase  he  came  back  with  a  very  bad 
head  and  no  clothes  worth  talkin'  about.  He 
had  been  jailed  most  time,  but  he  had  inves- 
tigated the  mechanism  of  these  cars  yonder — 
when  he  wasn't  in  the  cage.  He  came  back 
with  the  liquor  for  the  saloon,  and  the  boys 
whooped  round  him  for  half  a  day,  singing 
songs  of  glory.  'Boys,'  says  O'Grady,  when 
a  half  of  Bow  Flume  were  lying  on  the  floor 
kissing  the  cuspidors  and  singing  'Way  Down 
the  Swanee  River,'  being  full  of  some  new 
stuff  O'Grady  had  got  up  from  'Frisco — 'boys,' 
says  O'Grady,  'I  have  the  makings  of  a  com- 
[206  ] 


THE  BOW  FLUME  CABLE-CAR 

pany  in  me.  You  know  the  road  from  this 
saloon  to  Bow  Flume  is  bad  and  'most  perpen- 
dicular.' That  was  the  exact  state  of  the  case. 
Bow  Flume  city  was  three  hundred  feet  above 
our  saloon.  The  boys  used  to  roll  down  and 
get  full,  and  any  that  happened  to  be  sober 
rolled  them  up  again  when  the  time  came  to 
get.  Some  dropped  into  the  canon  that  way — 
bad  payers  mostly.  You  see,  a  man  held  all 
the  hill  Bow  Flume  was  built  on,  and  he  wanted 
forty  thousand  dollars  for  a  forty-five  by  hun- 
dred lot  o'  ground.  We  kept  the  whisky  and 
the  boys  came  down  for  it.  The  exercise  dis- 
posed them  to  thirst.  'Boys,'  says  O'Grady, 
'as  you  know,  I  have  visited  the  great  metropo- 
lis of  'Frisco.'  Then  they  had  drinks  all  round 
for  'Frisco.  'And  I  have  been  jailed  a  few 
while  enjoying  the  sights.'  Then  they  had 
drinks  all  round  for  the  jail  that  held  O'Grady. 
'But,'  he  says,  'I  have  a  proposal  to  make.' 
More  drinks  on  account  of  the  proposal.  'I 
have  got  a  hold  of  the  idea  of  those  'Frisco 
cable-cars.  Some  of  the  idea  I  got  in  'Frisco. 
[207] 


ABAFT  THE  FUXXEL 

The  rest  I  have  invented,"  says  O'Grady.  Thai 
they  drank  all  round  for  the  invention. 

T  am  coming  to  the  point.  O'Grady  made 
a  company — the  drunkest  I  ever  saw — to  run 
a  cable-car  on  the  'Frisco  model  from  Wake 
Up  an*  Git  Saloon'  to  Bow  Flume.  The  boys 
put  in  about  four  thousand  dollars,  for  Bow 
Flume  was  squirling  gold  then.  There's  nary 
shanty  there  now.  O'Grady  put  in  four  thou- 
sand dollars  of  his  own.  and  I  was  roped  in 
for  as  much.  O'Grady  desired  the  concern  to 
represent  the  resources  of  Bow  Flume.  We 
got  a  car  built  in  'Frisco  for  two  thousand 
dollars,  with  an  elegant  bar  at  one  end — nickel- 
plated  fixings  and  ruby  glass. 

"The  notion  was  to  dispense  liquor  en  route. 
A  Bow  Flume  man  could  put  himself  outside 
two  drinks  in  a  minute  and  a  half,  the  same 
not  being  pressed  for  urgent  business.  The 
boys  graded  the  road  for  love,  and  we  run  a 
rope  in  a  little  trough  in  the  middle.  That 
rope  ran  swift,  and  any  blame  fool  that  had 
his  foot  cut  off.  fooling  in  the  middle  of  the 
road,  might  ha'  found  salvation  by  using  our 
[  208  ] 


THE  BOW  FLUME  CABLE-CAR 

Bow  Flume  Palace  Car.  The  boys  said  that 
was  square.  O'Grady  took  the  contract  for 
building  the  engine  to  wind  the  rope.  He 
called  his  show  a  mule — it  was  a  crossbreed  be- 
tween a  threshing  machine  and  an  elevator 
ram.  I  don't  think  he  had  followed  the  'Frisco 
patterns.  He  put  all  our  dollars  into  that 
blamed  barroom  on  the  car,  knowing  what 
would  please  the  boys  best.  They  didn't  care 
much  about  the  machinery,  so  long  as  the  car 
hummed. 

"We  charged  the  boys  a  dollar  a  head  per 
trip.  One  free  drink  included.  That  paid — 
paid  like — Paradise.  They  liked  the  motion. 
O'Grady  was  engineer,  and  another  man  sort 
of  tended  to  the  rope  engine  when  he  wasn't 
otherwise  engaged.  Those  cable-cars  run  by 
gripping  on  to  the  rope.  You  know  that. 
When  the  grip's  off  the  car  is  braked  down  and 
stands  still.  There  ought  to  have  been  two 
cars  by  right — one  to  run  up  and  the  other 
down.  But  O'Grady  had  a  blamed  invention 
for  reversing  the  engine,  so  the  cable  ran  both 
ways — up  to  Bow  Flume  and  down  to  the 
[  209] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

saloon — the  terminus  being  in  front  of  our 
door.  A  man  could  kick  a  friend  slick  from 
the  bar  into  the  car.  The  boys  appreciated 
that.  The  Bow  Flume  Palace  Car  Company 
earned  twenty  on  the  hundred  in  three  months, 
besides  the  profits  of  the  drinks.  We  might 
have  lasted  to  this  day  if  O'Grady  hadn't  tin- 
kered his  blamed  engine  up  on  top  of  Bow 
Flume  Hill.  The  boys  complained  the  show 
didn't  hum  sufficient.  They  required  railroad 
speed.  O'Grady  ran  'em  up  and  do™  at  four- 
teen miles  an  hour;  and  his  latest  improvement 
was  to  touch  twenty-four.  The  strain  on  the 
brakes  was  terrible — quite  terrible.  But  every 
time  O'Grady  raised  the  record,  the  boys  gave 
him  a  testimonial.  'Twasn't  in  human  nature 
not  to  crowd  ahead  after  that.  Testimonials 
demoralise  the  publickest  of  men. 

"I  rode  on  the  car  that  memorial  day.  Just 
as  we  started  with  a  double  load  of  boys  and 
a  razzle-dazzle  assortment  of  drinks,  something 
went  zip  under  the  car  bottom.  We  proceeded 
with  velocity.  All  the  prominent  members  of 
the  company  were  aboard.  'The  grip  has  got 
[210] 


THE  BOW  FLUME  CABLE-CAR 


snubbed  on  the  rope,'  says  O'Grady  quite  quiet- 
ly. 'Boys,  this  will  be  the  biggest  smash  on 
record.  Something's  going  to  happen.'  We 
proceeded  at  the  rate  of  twenty-four  miles  an 
hour  till  the  end  of  our  journey.  I  don't  know 
what  happened  there.  We  could  get  clear  of 
the  rope  anyways  at  the  point  where  it  turned 
round  a  pulley  to  start  up  hill  again.  We 
struck — struck  the  stoop  of  the  'Wake  Up 
an'  Git  Saloon' — my  saloon — and  the  next 
thing  I  knew  was  feeling  of  my  legs  under  an 
assortment  of  matchwood  and  broken  glass, 
representing  liquor  and  fixtures  to  the  tune  of 
eight  thousand.  The  car  had  been  flicked 
through  the  saloon,  bringing  down  the  entire 
roof  on  the  floor.  It  had  then  bucked  out  into 
the  firmament,  describing  a  parabola  over  the 
bluff  at  the  back  of  the  saloon,  and  was  lying 
at  the  foot  of  that  bluff,  three  hundred  feet 
below,  like  a  busted  kaleidoscope — all  nickel, 
shavings  and  bits  of  red  glass.  O'Grady  and 
most  of  the  prominent  members  of  the  com- 
pany were  dead — very  dead — and  there  wasn't 
enough  left  of  the  saloon  to  pay  for  a  drink. 
[211] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

I  took  in  the  situation  lying  on  my  stomach  at 
the  edge  of  the  bluff,  and  I  suspicioned  that 
any  lawsuits  that  might  arise  would  be  compli- 
cated by  shooting.  So  I  quit  Bow  Flume  by 
the  back  trail.  I  guess  the  coroner  judged 
that  there  were  no  summons — leastways  I 
never  heard  any  more  about  it.  Since  that  time 
I've  had  a  distrust  to  cable-cars.  The  rope 
breaking  is  no  great  odds,  bekase  you  can  stop 
the  car,  but  it's  getting  the  grip  tangled  with 
the  running  rope  that  spreads  ruin  and  desola- 
tion over  thriving  communities  and  prevents 
the  development  of  local  resources." 


[212] 


IN  PARTIBUS* 


HE  'buses  run  to  Battersea, 


The  'buses  run  to  Westbourne  Grove, 
A  nd  Nottinghill  also; 


But  I  am  sick  of  London  town, 
From  Shepherd's  Bush  to  Bow. 

I  see  the  smut  upon  my  cuff 
And  feel  him  on  my  nose; 

I  cannot  leave  my  window  wide 
When  gentle  zephyr  blows, 

Because  he  brings  disgusting  things 
And  drops  'em  on  my  "clo'es." 

The  sky,  a  greasy  soup-toureen, 
Shuts  down  atop  my  brow. 

Yes,  I  have  sighed  for  London  town 
And  I  have  got  it  now: 

And  half  of  it  is  fog  and  filth, 
And  half  is  fog  and  row. 

♦"Turnovers,"  Vol.  VIII. 


[213] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


And  when  I  take  my  nightly  prowl, 

'Tis  passing  good  to  meet 
The  pious  Briton  lugging  home 

His  wife  and  daughter  sweet, 
Through  four  packed  miles  of  seething  vice, 

Thrust  out  upon  the  street. 

Earth  holds  no  horror  like  to  this 

In  any  land  displayed, 
From  Suez  unto  Sandy  Hook, 

From  Calais  to  Port  Said ; 
And  'twas  to  hide  their  heathendom 

The  beastly  fog  was  made. 

I  cannot  tell  when  dawn  is  near, 

Or  when  the  day  is  done, 
Because  I  always  see  the  gas 

And  never  see  the  sun, 
And  now,  methinks,  I  do  not  care 

A  cuss  for  either  one. 


But  stay,  there  was  an  orange,  or 
An  aged  egg  its  yolk ; 

[214] 


IN  PARTIBUS 


It  might  have  been  a  Pears'  balloon 

Or  Barnum's  latest  joke: 
I  took  it  for  the  sun  and  wept 

To  watch  it  through  the  smoke. 

It's  Oh  to  see  the  morn  ablaze 

Above  the  mango-tope, 
When  homeward  through  the  dewy  cane 

The  little  jackals  lope, 
And  half  Bengal  heaves  into  view, 

New- washed — with  sunlight  soap. 

It's  Oh  for  one  deep  whisky  peg 
When  Christmas  winds  are  blowing, 

When  all  the  men  you  ever  knew, 

And  all  you've  ceased  from  knowing, 

Are  "entered  for  the  Tournament, 
And  everything  that's  going." 

But  I  consort  with  long-haired  things 

In  velvet  collar-rolls, 
Who  talk  about  the  Aims  of  Art, 

And  "theories"  and  "goals," 
And  moo  and  coo  with  women-folk 

About  their  blessed  souls. 

[  215  ] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


But  that  they  call  "psychology" 

Is  lack  of  liver  pill, 
And  all  that  blights  their  tender  souls 

Is  eating  till  they're  ill, 
And  their  chief  way  of  winning  goals 

Consists  in  sitting  still. 

It's  Oh  to  meet  an  Army  man, 
Set  up,  and  trimmed  and  taut, 

Who  does  not  spout  hashed  libraries 
Or  think  the  next  man's  thought, 

And  walks  as  though  he  owned  himself, 
And  hogs  his  bristles  short. 

Hear  now,  a  voice  across  the  seas 

To  kin  beyond  my  ken, 
If  ye  have  ever  filled  an  hour 

With  stories  from  my  pen, 
For  pity's  sake  send  some  one  here 

To  bring  me  news  of  men ! 

The  'buses  run  to  Islington, 
To  Highgate  and  Soho, 
[216] 


IN  PARTIBUS 

To  Hammersmith  and  Kew  therewith, 

And  Camberwell  also, 
But  I  can  only  murmur  " 3 Bus" 

From  Shepherd's  Bush  to  Bow, 


[217] 


LETTERS  ON  LEAVE* 


I 

TO  Lieutenant  John  McHail, 
151st  (Kumharsen)  P.  N.  L, 
Hakaiti  via  Tharanda, 
Assam. 

Dear  Old  Man:  Your  handwriting  is 
worse  than  ever,  but  as  far  as  I  can  see  among 
the  loops  and  fish-hooks,  you  are  lonesome  and 
want  to  be  comforted  with  a  letter.  I  knew 
you  wouldn't  write  to  me  unless  you  needed 
something.  You  don't  tell  me  that  you  have 
left  your  regiment,  but  from  what  you  say 
about  "my  battalion,"  "my  men,"  and  so  forth, 
it  seems  as  if  you  were  raising  military  police 
for  the  benefit  of  the  Chins.  If  that's  the  case, 


♦The  "Pioneer  Mail,"  Vol.  XVII.  No.  40,  Oct.  2,  1890, 
page  436. 

[218] 


LETTERS  ON  LEAVE 

I  congratulate  you.  The  pay  is  good.  Ouless 
writes  to  me  from  some  new  fort  something  or 
other,  saying  that  he  has  struggled  into  a 
billet  of  Rs.  700  (Military  Police),  and  in- 
stead of  being  chased  by  writters  as  he  used 
to  be,  is  ravaging  the  country  round  Shillong 
in  search  of  a  wife.  I  am  very  sorry  for  the 
Mrs.  Ouless  of  the  future. 

That  doesn't  matter.  You  probably  know 
more  about  the  boys  yonder  than  I  do.  If 
you'll  only  send  me  from  time  to  time  some 
record  of  their  movements  I'll  try  to  tell  you 
of  things  on  this  side  of  the  water.  You  say 
"You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  hear  from  town." 
I  say  "You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  hear  from 
the  dehat"  Now  and  again  men  drift  in  with 
news,  but  I  don't  like  hot-weather  khubber. 
It's  all  of  the  domestic  occurrence  kind.  Old 
"Hat"  Constable  came  to  see  me  the  other  day. 
You  remember  the  click  in  his  throat  before 
he  begins  to  speak.  He  sat  still,  clicking  at 
quarter-hour  intervals,  and  after  each  click 
he'd  say:  "D'ye  remember  Mistress  So-an'- 
So?  Well,  she's  dead  o'  typhoid  at  Naogong." 
[219] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

When  it  wasn't  "Mistress  So-an'-So"  it  was 
a  man.  I  stood  four  clicks  and  four  deaths, 
and  then  I  asked  him  to  spare  me  the  rest. 
You  seem  to  have  had  a  bad  season,  taking  it 
all  round,  and  the  women  seem  to  have  suf- 
fered most.   Is  that  so? 

We  don't  die  in  London.  We  go  out  of 
town,  and  we  make  as  much  fuss  about  it  as 
if  we  were  going  to  the  Neva.  Now  I  under- 
stand why  the  transport  is  the  first  thing  to 
break  down  when  our  army  takes  the  field. 
The  Englishman  is  cumbrous  in  his  move- 
ments and  very  particular  about  his  baskets 
and  hampers  and  trunks — not  less  than  seven 
of  each — for  a  fifty-mile  journey.  Leave  sea- 
son began  some  weeks  ago,  and  there  is  a 
burra-choop  along  the  streets  that  you  could 
shovel  with  a  spade.  All  the  people  that  say 
they  are  everybody  have  gone — quite  two  hun- 
dred miles  away.  Some  of  'em  are  even  on 
the  Continent — and  the  clubs  are  full  of 
strange  folk.  I  found  a  Reform  man  at  the 
Savage  a  week  ago.  He  didn't  say  what  his 
business  was,  but  he  was  dusty  and  looked 
[220] 


LETTERS  ON  LEAVE 


hungry.  I  suppose  he  had  come  in  for  food 
and  shelter. 

Like  the  rest  I'm  on  leave  too.  I  converted 
myself  into  a  Government  Secretary,  awarded 
myself  one  month  on  full  pay  with  the  chance 
of  an  extension,  and  went  off.  Then  it  rained 
and  hailed,  and  rained  again,  and  I  ran  up 
and  down  this  tiny  country  in  trains  trying  to 
find  a  dry  place.  After  ten  days  I  came  back 
to  town,  having  been  stopped  by  the  sea  four 
times.  I  was  rather  like  a  kitten  at  the  bottom 
of  a  bucke  chasing  its  own  tail.  So  I'm  sitting 
here  under  a  grey,  muggy  sky  wondering  what 
sort  of  time  they  are  having  at  Simla.  It's 
August  now.  The  rains  would  be  nearly  over, 
all  the  theatricals  would  be  in  full  swing,  and 
Jakko  Hill  would  be  just  Paradise.  You're 
probably  pink  with  prickly  heat.  Sit  down 
quietly  under  the  punkah  and  think  of  Um- 
balla  station,  hot  as  an  oven  at  four  in  the 
morning.  Think  of  the  dak-gharry  slobbering 
in  the  wet,  and  the  first  little  cold  wind  that 
comes  round  the  first  corner  after  the  tonga 
is  clear  of  Kalka.  There's  a  wind  you  and 
[221] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

I  know  well.  It's  blowing  over  the  grass  at 
Dugshai  this  very  moment,  and  there's  a  smell 
of  hot  fir  trees  all  along  and  along  from  Solon 
to  Simla,  and  some  happy  man  is  flying  up 
that  road  with  fragments  of  a  tonga-bar  in 
his  eye,  his  pet  terrier  under  his  arm,  his  thick 
clothes  on  the  back-seat  and  the  certainty  of 
a  month's  pure  joy  in  front  of  him.  Instead 
of  which  you're  being  stewed  at  Hakaiti  and 
I'm  sitting  in  a  second-hand  atmosphere  above 
a  sausage-shop,  watching  three  sparrows  play- 
ing in  a  dirty-green  tree  and  pretending  that 
it's  summer.  I  have  a  view  of  very  many 
streets.and  a  river.  Except  the  advertisements 
on  the  walls,  there  isn't  one  speck  of  colour  as 
far  as  my  eye  can  reach.  The  very  cat,  who 
is  an  amiable  beast,  comes  off  black  under  my 
hand,  and  I  daren't  open  the  window  for  fear 
of  smuts.  And  this  is  better  than  a  soaked  and 
sobbled  country,  with  the  corn-shocks  stand- 
ing like  plover's  eggs  in  green  moss  and  the 
oats  lying  flat  in  moist  lumps.  We  haven't 
had  any  summer,  and  yesterday  I  smelt  the 
raw  touch  of  the  winter.  Just  one  little  whiff 
[222] 


LETTERS  ON  LEAVE 

to  show  that  the  year  had  turned.'  "Oh,  what 
a  happy  land  is  England!" 

I  cannot  understand  the  white  man  at  home. 
You  remember  when  we  went  out  together  and 
landed  at  the  Apollo  Bunder  with  all  our  sor- 
rows before  us,  and  went  to  Watson's  Hotel 
and  saw  the  snake-charmers?  You  said:  "It'll 
take  me  all  my  lifetime  to  distinguish  one  nig- 
ger from  another."  That  was  eight  years  ago. 
Now  you  don't  call  them  niggers  any  more, 
and  you're  supposed — quite  wrongly — to  have 
an  insight  into  native  character,  or  else  you 
would  never  have  been  allowed  to  recruit  for 
the  Kumharsens.  I  feel  as  I  felt  at  Watson's. 
They  are  so  deathlily  alike,  especially  the  more 
educated.  They  all  seem  to  read  the  same 
books,  and  the  same  newspapers  telling  'em 
what  to  admire  in  the  same  books,  and  they 
all  quote  the  same  passages  from  the  same 
books,  and  they  write  books  on  books  about 
somebody  else's  books,  and  they  are  penetrated 
to  their  boot-heels  with  a  sense  of  the  awful 
seriousness  of  their  own  views  of  the  moment. 
Above  that  they  seem  to  be,  most  curiously  and 
[  223  ] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

beyond  the  right  of  ordinary  people,  divorced 
from  the  knowledge  or  fear  of  death.  Of 
course,  every  man  conceives  that  every  man 
except  himself  is  bound  to  die  (you  remember 
how  Hallatt  spoke  the  night  before  he  went 
out),  but  these  men  appear  to  be  like  children 
in  that  respect. 

I  can't  explain  exactly,  but  it  gives  an  air 
of  unreality  to  their  most  earnest  earnestnesses ; 
and  when  a  young  man  of  views  and  culture 
and  aspirations  is  in  earnest,  the  trumpets  of 
Jericho  are  silent  beside  him.  Because  they 
have  everything  done  for  them  they  know  how 
everything  ought  to  be  done;  and  they  are 
perfectly  certain  that  wood  pavements,  police- 
men, shops  and  gaslight  come  in  the  regular 
course  of  nature.  You  can  guess  with  these 
convictions  how  thoroughly  and  cocksurely 
they  handle  little  trifles  like  colonial  adminis- 
tration, the  wants  of  the  army,  municipal  sew- 
age, housing  of  the  poor,  and  so  forth.  Every 
third  common  need  of  average  men  is,  in  their 
mouths,  a  tendency  or  a  movement  or  a  federa- 
tion affecting  the  world.  It  never  seems  to 
[224] 


LETTERS  ON  LEAVE 

occur  to  'em  that  the  human  instinct  of  getting 
as  much  as  possible  for  money  paid,  or,  failing 
money,  for  threats  and  f awnings,  is  about  as 
old  as  Cain;  and  the  burden  of  their  bat  is: 
"Me  an'  a  few  mates  o'  mine  are  going  to  make 
a  new  world." 

As  long  as  men  only  write  and  talk  they 
must  think  that  way,  I  suppose.  It's  compen- 
sation for  playing  with  little  things.  And 
that  reminds  me.  Do  you  know  the  University 
smile?  You  don't  by  that  name,  but  some- 
times young  civilians  wear  it  for  a  very  short 
time  when  they  first  come  out.  Something — 
I  wonder  if  it's  our  brutal  chaff,  or  a  billiard- 
cue,  or  which? — takes  it  out  of  their  faces,  and 
when  they  next  differ  with  you  they  do  so 
without  smiling.  But  that  smile  flourishes  in 
London.  I've  met  it  again  and  again.  It  ex- 
presses tempered  grief,  sorrow  at  your  com- 
plete inability  to  march  with  the  march  of 
progress  at  the  Universities,  and  a  chastened 
contempt.  There  is  one  man  who  wears  it  as 
a  garment.  He  is  frivolously  young — not 
more  than  thirty-five  or  forty — and  all  these 
[225] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

years  no  one  has  removed  that  smile.  He 
knows  everything  about  everything  on  this 
earth,  and  above  all  he  knows  all  about  men 
under  any  and  every  condition  of  life.  He 
knows  all  about  the  aggressive  militarism  of 
you  and  your  friends;  he  isn't  quite  sure  of 
the  necessity  of  an  army;  he  is  certain  that 
colonial  expansion  is  nonsense ;  and  he  is  more 
than  certain  that  the  whole  step  of  all  our 
Empire  must  be  regulated  by  the  knowledge 
and  foresight  of  the  workingman.  Then  he 
smiles — smiles  like  a  seraph  with  an  M.  A.  de- 
gree. What  can  you  do  with  a  man  like  that? 
He  has  never  seen  an  unmade  road  in  his  life ; 
I  think  he  believes  that  wheat  grows  on  a  tree 
and  that  beef  is  dug  from  a  mine.  He  has 
never  been  forty  miles  from  a  railway,  and 
he  has  never  been  called  upon  to  issue  an  order 
to  anybody  except  his  well-fed  servants.  Isn't 
it  wondrous?  And  there  are  battalions  and 
brigades  of  these  men  in  town  removed  from 
the  fear  of  want,  living  until  they  are  seventy 
or  eighty,  sheltered,  fed,  drained  and  admin- 
[226] 


LETTERS  ON  LEAVE 

istered,  expending  their  vast  leisure  in  talking 
and  writing. 

But  the  real  fun  begins  much  lower  down 
the  line.  I've  been  associating  generally  and 
very  particularly  with  the  men  who  say  that 
they  are  the  only  men  in  the  world  who  work 
— and  they  call  themselves  the  workingman. 
Now  the  workingman  in  America  is  a  nice  per- 
son. He  says  he  is  a  man  and  behaves  ac- 
cordingly. That  is  to  say,  he  has  some  notion 
that  he  is  part  and  parcel  of  a  great  country. 
At  least,  he  talks  that  way.  But  in  this  town 
you  can  see  thousands  of  men  meeting  publicly 
on  Sundays  to  cry  aloud  that  everybody  may 
hear  that  they  are  poor,  downtrodden  helots — 
in  fact,  "the  pore  workin'man."  At  their  clubs 
and  pubs  the  talk  is  the  same.  It's  the  utter 
want  of  self-respect  that  revolts.  My  friend 
the  tobacconist  has  a  cousin,  who  is,  apparently, 
sound  in  mind  and  limb,  aged  twenty-three, 
clear-eyed  and  upstanding.  He  is  a  "skibbo" 
by  trade — a  painter  of  sorts.  He  married  at 
twenty,  and  he  has  two  children.  He  can 
spend  three-quarters  of  an  hour  talking  about 
[  227  ] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

his  downtrodden  condition.  He  works  under 
another  Raj-mistri,  who  has  saved  money  and 
started  a  little  shop  of  his  own.  He  hates  that 
Raj-mistri;  he  loathes  the  police ;  and  his  views 
on  the  lives  and  customs  of  the  aristocracy  are 
strange.  He  approves  of  every  form  of  law- 
lessness, and  he  knows  that  everybody  who 
holds  authority  is  sure  to  be  making  a  good 
thing  out  of  it.  Of  himself  as  a  citizen  he  never 
thinks.  Of  himself  as  an  Ishmael  he  thinks  a 
good  deal.  He  is  entitled  to  eight  hours'  work 
a  day  and  some  time  off — said  time  to  be  paid 
for;  he  is  entitled  to  free  education  for  his 
children — and  he  doesn't  want  no  bloomin' 
clergyman  to  teach  'em ;  he  is  entitled  to  houses 
especially  built  for  himself  because  he  pays 
the  bulk  of  the  taxes  of  the  country.  He  is 
not  going  to  emigrate,  not  he;  he  reserves  to 
himself  the  right  of  multiplying  as  much  as 
he  pleases;  the  streets  must  be  policed  for  him 
while  he  demonstrates,  immediately  under  my 
window,  by  the  way,  for  ten  consecutive  hours, 
and  I  am  probably  a  thief  because  my  clothes 
are  better  than  his.  The  proposition  is  a  very 
[228] 


LETTERS  ON  LEAVE 

simple  one.  He  has  no  duties  to  the  State,  no 
personal  responsibility  of  any  kind,  and  he'd 
sooner  see  his  children  dead  than  soldiers  of 
the  Queen.  The  Government  owes  him  every- 
thing because  he  is  a  pore  workin'man.  When 
the  Guards  tried  their  Board-school  mutiny  at 
the  Wellington  Barracks  my  friend  was  jubi- 
lant. "What  did  I  tell  you?"  he  said.  "You 
see  the  very  soldiers  won't  stand  it." 
"What's  it?" 

"Bein'  treated  like  machines  instead  of  flesh 
and  blood.   'Course  they  won't." 

The  popular  evening  paper  wrote  that  the 
Guards,  with  perfect  justice,  had  rebelled 
against  being  treated  like  machines  instead  of 
flesh  and  blood.  Then  I  thought  of  a  certain 
regiment  that  lay  in  Mian  Mir  for  three  years 
and  dropped  four  hundred  men  out  of  a  thou- 
sand. It  died  of  fever  and  cholera.  There 
were  no  pretty  nursemaids  to  work  with  it  in 
the  streets,  because  there  were  no  streets.  I 
saw  how  the  Guards  amused  themselves  and 
how  their  sergeants  smoked  in  uniform.  I  pitied 
the  Guards  with  their  cruel  sentry-goes,  their 
[  229  ] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

three  nights  out  of  bed,  and  their  unlimited 
supply  of  love  and  liquor. 

Another  man,  not  a  workman,  told  me  that 
the  Guards'  riot — it's  impossible,  as  you  know, 
to  call  this  kick-up  of  the  fatted  flunkies  of 
the  army  a  mutiny — was  only  "a  schoolboy's 
prank";  and  he  could  not  see  that  if  it  was 
what  he  said  it  was,  the  Guards  were  no  regi- 
ment and  should  have  been  wiped  out  decently 
and  quietly.  There  again  the  futility  of  a 
sheltered  people  cropped  up.  You  mustn't 
treat  a  man  like  a  machine  in  this  country,  but 
you  can't  get  any  work  out  of  a  man  till  he  has 

learned  to  work  like  a  machine.    D   has 

just  come  home  for  a  few  months  from  the 
charge  of  a  mountain  battery  on  the  frontier. 
He  used  to  begin  work  at  eight,  and  he  was 
thankful  if  he  got  off  at  six;  most  of  the  time 
on  his  feet.  When  he  went  to  the  Black  Moun- 
tain he  was  extensively  engaged  for  nearly  six- 
teen hours  a  day;  and  that  on  food  at  which 
the  "pore  workin'man"  would  have  turned  up 

his  state-lifted  nose.   D  on  the  subject  of 

labour  as  understood  by  the  white  man  in  his 
[230] 


LETTERS  ON  LEAVE 


own  home  is  worth  hearing.    Though  coarse 

— considerahly  coarse!    But  D   doesn't 

know  all  the  hopeless  misery  of  the  business. 
When  the  small  pig,  oyster,  furniture,  carpet, 
builder  or  general  shopman  works  his  way  out 
of  the  ruck  he  turns  round  and  makes  his  old 
friends  and  employes  sweat.  He  knows  how 
near  he  can  go  to  flaying  'em  alive  before  they 
kick;  and  in  this  matter  he  is  neither  better 
nor  worse  than  a  bunnia  or  a  havildar  of  our 
own  blessed  country.  It's  the  small  employer 
of  labour  that  skins  his  servant,  exactly  as  the 
forty-pound  householder  works  her  one  white 
servant  to  the  bone  and  goes  to  drop  pennies 
into  the  plate  to  convert  the  heathen  in  the 
East. 

Just  at  present,  as  you  have  read,  the  per- 
son who  calls  himself  the  pore  workin'man — 
the  man  I  saw  kicking  fallen  men  in  the  mud 
by  the  docks  last  winter — has  discovered  a  real, 
fine,  new  original  notion;  and  he  is  working 
it  for  all  he  is  worth.  He  calls  it  the  solidarity 
of  labour  bundobast;  but  it's  caste — four  thou- 
sand years  old,  caste  of  Menu — with  old  shetts, 
[231] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

mahajuns,  guildtolls,  excommunication  and  all 
the  rest  of  it.  All  things  considered,  there 
isn't  anything  much  older  than  caste — it  began 
with  the  second  generation  of  man  on  earth — 
but  to  read  the  "advance"  papers  on  the  sub- 
ject you'd  imagine  it  was  a  revelation  from 
Heaven.  The  real  fun  will  begin — as  it  has 
begun  and  ended  many  times  before — when 
the  caste  of  skilled  labour— that's  the  pore 
workin'man — are  pushed  up  and  knocked 
about  by  the  lower  and  unrecognised  castes, 
who  will  form  castes  of  their  own  and  outcaste 
on  the  decision  of  their  own  punchayats.  How 
these  castes  will  scuffle  and  fight  among  them- 
selves, and  how  astonished  the  Englishman  will 
be! 

He  is  naturally  lawless  because  he  is  a  fight- 
ing animal;  and  his  amazingly  sheltered  con- 
dition has  made  him  inconsequent.  I  don't  like 
inconsequent  lawlessness.  I've  seen  it  down 
at  Bow  Street,  at  the  docks,  by  the  G.  P.  O., 
and  elsewhere.  Its  chief  home,  of  course,  is 
in  that  queer  place  called  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, but  no  one  goes  there  who  isn't  forced 
[232  ] 


LETTERS  ON  LEAVE 

by  business.  It's  shut  up  at  present,  and  the 
persons  who  belong  to  it  are  loose  all  over  the 
face  of  the  country.  I  don't  think — but  I 
won't  swear — that  any  of  them  are  spitting  at 
policemen.  One  man  appears  to  have  been 
poaching,  others  are  advocating  various  forms 
of  murder  and  outrage — and  nobody  seems  to 
care.  The  residue  talk — just  heavens,  how 
they  talk,  and  what  wonderful  fictions  they 
tell!  And  they  firmly  believe,  being  ignorant 
of  the  mechanism  of  Government,  that  they 
administer  the  country.  In  addition,  certain 
of  their  newspapers  have  elaborately  worked 
up  a  famine  in  Ireland  that  could  be  engi- 
neered by  two  Deputy  Commissioners  and  four 
average  Stunts  into  a  "woe"  and  a  "calamity" 
that  is  going  to  overshadow  the  peace  of  the 
nation — even  the  Empire.  I  suppose  they 
have  their  own  sense  of  proportion,  but  they 
manage  to  keep  it  to  themselves  very  success- 
fully. What  do  you,  who  have  seen  half  a 
countryside  in  deadly  fear  of  its  life,  suppose 
that  this  people  would  do  if  they  were  chuk- 
kered  and  gabraowed?  If  they  really  knew 
[233] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

what  the  fear  of  death  and  the  dread  of  injury- 
implied?  If  they  died  very  swiftly,  indeed, 
and  could  not  count  their  futile  lives  endur- 
ing beyond  next  sundown?  Some  of  the  men 
from  your — I  mean  our — part  of  the  world 
say  that  they  would  be  afraid  and  break  and 
scatter  and  run.  But  there  is  no  room  in  the 
island  to  run.  The  sea  catches  you,  midwaist, 
at  the  third  step.  I  am  curious  to  see  if  the 
cholera,  of  which  these  people  stand  in  most 
lively  dread,  gets  a  firm  foothold  in  London. 
In  that  case  I  have  a  notion  that  there  will  be 
scenes  and  panics.  They  live  too  well  here, 
and  have  too  much  to  make  life  worth  cling- 
ing to — clubs,  and  shop  fronts,  and  gas,  and 
theatres,  and  so  forth — things  that  they  affect 
to  despise,  and  whereon  and  whereby  they  live 
like  leeches.  But  I  have  written  enough.  It 
doesn't  exhaust  the  subject;  but  you  won't  be 
grateful  for  other  epistles.  De  Vitre  of  the 
Poona  Irregular  Moguls  will  have  it  that  they 
are  a  tiddy-iddy  people.  He  says  that  all  their 
visible  use  is  to  produce  loans  for  the  colonies 
and  men  to  be  used  up  in  developing  India.  I 
[234] 


LETTERS  ON  LEAVE 


honestly  believe  that  the  average  Englishman 
would  faint  if  you  told  him  it  was  lawful  to 
use  up  human  life  for  any  purpose  whatever. 
He  believes  that  it  has  to  be  developed  and 
made  beautiful  for  the  possessor,  and  in  that 
belief  talkatively  perpetrates  cruelties  that 
would  make  Torquemada  jump  in  his  grave. 
Go  to  Alipur  if  you  want  to  see.  I  am  off  to 
foreign  parts — forty  miles  away — to  catch  fish 
for  my  friend  the  char-cat;  also  to  shoot  a 
little  bird  if  I  have  luck. 

Yours, 

Rudyard  Kipling. 


II 


To  Captain  J.  McHail, 

151st  (Kumharsen)  N.  I., 

Hakaiti  via  Tharanda. 

Captain  Sahib  Bahadur!   The  last  Pi  gives 
me  news  of  your  step,  and  I'm  more  pleased 
about  it  than  many.    You've  been  "cavalry 
[235] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

quick"  in  your  promotion.  Eight  years  and 
your  company!  Allahu!  But  it  must  have 
been  that  long,  lean  horse-head  of  yours  that 
looks  so  wise  and  says  so  little  that  has  imposed 
upon  the  authorities.  My  best  congratula- 
tions. Let  out  your  belt  two  holes,  and  be 
happy,  as  I  am  not. 

Did  I  tell  you  in  my  last  about  going  to 
Woking  in  search  of  a  grave?  The  dust 
and  the  grime  and  the  grey  and  the  sausage- 
shop  told  on  my  spirits  to  such  an  extent  that 
I  solemnly  took  a  train  and  went  grave-hunt- 
ing through  the  Necropolis — locally  called  the 
Necrapolis.  I  wanted  an  eligible,  entirely  de- 
tached site  in  a  commanding  position — six  by 
three  and  bricked  throughout.  I  found  it,  but 
the  only  drawback  was  that  I  must  go  back 
to  town  to  the  head  office  to  buy  it.  One 
doesn't  go  to  town  to  haggle  for  tomb-space, 
so  I  deferred  the  matter  and  went  fishing.  All 
the  same,  there  are  very  nice  graves  at 
Woking,  and  I  shall  keep  my  eye  on  one  of 
'em. 

Since  that  date  I  seem  to  have  been  in  four 
[286] 


LETTERS  ON  LEAVE 

or  five  places,  because  there  are  labels  on  the 
bag.  One  of  the  places  was  Plymouth,  where 
I  found  half  a  regiment  at  field  exercises  on 
the  Hoe.  They  were  practising  the  attack  in 
three  lines  with  the  mixed  rush  at  the  end, 
even  as  it  is  laid  down  in  the  drill-book,  and 
they  charged  subduedly  across  the  Hoe.  The 
people  laughed.  I  was  much  more  inclined 
to  cry.  Except  the  Major,  there  didn't  seem 
to  be  anything  more  than  twenty  years  old 
in  the  regiment;  and  oh!  but  it  was  pink  and 
white  and  chubby  and  undersized — just  made 
to  die  succulently  of  disease.  I  fancied  that 
some  of  our  battalions  out  with  you  were  more 
or  less  young  and  exposed,  but  a  home  bat- 
talion is  a  creche,  and  it  scares  one  to  watch 
it.  Eminent  and  distinguished  Generals  get 
up  after  dinner — I've  listened  to  two  of  'em — 
and  explain  that  though  the  home  battalion  can 
only  be  regarded  as  a  feeder  to  the  foreign, 
yet  all  our  battalions  can  be  regarded  as  effi- 
cient; and  if  they  aren't  efficient  we  shall  find 
in  our  military  reserve  the  nucleus — how  I 
loath  that  lying  word! — of  the  Lord  knows 
[237] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

what,  but  the  speeches  always  end  with  allu- 
sions to  the  spirit  of  the  English,  their  glori- 
ous past,  and  the  certainty  that  when  the  hour 
of  need  comes  the  nation  will  "emerge  victori- 
ous." If  (sic)  the  Engineer  of  the  Hunger- 
ford  Bridge  told  the  Southeastern  Railway 
that  because  a  main  girder  had  stood  for  thirty 
years  without  need  of  renewal  it  was  therefore 
sure  to  stand  for  another  fifty,  he  would  proba- 
bly get  the  sack.  Our  military  authorities 
don't  get  the  sack.  They  are  allowed  to  make 
speeches  in  public.  Some  day,  if  we  live  long 
enough,  we  shall  see  the  glories  of  the  past  and 
the  "sublime  instinct  of  an  ancient  people" 
without  one  complete  army  corps,  pitted 
against  a  few  unsentimental  long-range  guns 
and  some  efficiently  organised  troops.  Then 
the  band  will  begin  to  play,  and  it  will  not 
play  Rule  Britannia  until  it  has  played  some 
funny  tunes  first. 

Do  you  remember  Tighe?   He  was  in  the 
Deccan  Lancers  and  retired  because  he  got 
married.    He  is  in  Ireland  now,  and  I  met 
him  the  other  day,  idle,  unhappy  and  dying 
[  238  ] 


LETTERS  ON  LEAVE 

for  some  work  to  do.  Mrs.  Tighe  is  equally- 
miserable.  She  wants  to  go  back  to  Poona 
instead  of  administering  a  big  barrack  of  a 
house  somewhere  at  the  back  of  a  bog.  I  quote 
Tighe  here.  He  has,  you  may  remember,  a 
pretty  tongue  about  him,  and  he  was  describ- 
ing to  me  at  length  how  a  home  regiment 
behaves  when  it  is  solemnly  turned  out  for 
a  week  or  a  month  training  under  canvas: 

"About  four  in  the  mornin',  me  dear  boy, 
they  begin  pitchin'  their  tents  for  the  next  day 
—four  hours  to  pitch  it,  and  the  tent  ropes  a 
howlin'  tangle  when  all's  said  and  sworn.  Then 
they  tie  their  horses  with  strings  to  their  big 
toes  and  go  to  bed  in  hollows  and  caves  in 
the  earth  till  the  rain  falls  and  the  tents  are 
flooded,  and  then,  me  dear  boy,  the  men  and 
the  horses  and  the  ropes  and  the  vegetation 
of  the  country  cuddle  each  other  till  the  morn- 
ing for  the  company's  sake.  And  next  day 
it  all  begins  again.  Just  when  they  are  be- 
ginning to  understand  how  to  camp  they  are 
all  put  back  into  their  boxes,  and  half  of  'em 
have  lung  disease." 

[  239  ] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNIS 

But  what  is  the  use  of  snarling 
bling?  The  matter  will  adjust  iti 
and  the  one  nation  on  earth  thi 
thinks  most  of  the  sanctity  of  hui 
be  a  little  astonished  at  the  wast 
which  it  will  be  responsible.  In  th 
captain,  the  man  who  can  comms 
troops  and  have  made  the  best 
troops  will  be  sought  after  and  pe 
rise  to  honour.  Remember  the  I 
next  you  measure  the  naked  recru 

Let  us  revisit  calmer  scenes.  I'i 
for  three  perfect  days  to  the  sea 
you  remember  what  a  really  fine 
A  milk-white  sea,  as  smooth  as 
blue-white  heat  haze  hanging  over 
wave  talking  to  itself  on  the  sand 
gle,  four  bathing  machines,  cliff 
ground,  and  half  the  babies  in 


LETTERS  ON  LEAVE 

down  at  the  bottom  of  a  great  white 
bonnet;  talked  French  and  English  in  a 
bell-like  voice,  and  of  such  I  fervently 
will  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  be.  Wh< 
found  that  my  French  wasn't  equal  t< 
she  condescendingly  talked  English  anc 
me  build  her  houses  of  stones  and  dra^ 
for  her  through  half  the  day.  After 
done  everything  that  she  ordered  she  we 
to  talk  to  some  one  else.  The  beach  bel 
to  that  baby,  and  every  soul  on  it  was  he: 
ant,  for  I  know  that  we  rose  with  shouts 
she  paddled  into  three  inches  of  water  a 
down,  gasping:  "Mon  Dieu!  Je  suis  \ 
I  know  you  like  the  little  ones,  so  I 
apologise  for  yarning  about  them.  SI 
a  sister  aged  seven  and  one-half — a 
child,  without  a  scrap  of  self-consciousne! 
enormous  eyes.    Here  comes  a  real  tr 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

ings,  and  Hugh  submitted  quietly.  Then  de- 
votion began  to  pall,  and  he  didn't  care  to 
paddle  with  Violet.  Hereupon,  as  far  as  I 
can  gather,  she  smote  him  on  the  head  and 
threw  him  against  a  wall.  Anyhow,  it  was 
very  sweet  and  natural,  and  Hugh  told  me 
about  it  when  I  came  down.  "She's  so  un- 
rulable,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  hit  her  back,  but 
I  was  very  angry."  Of  course,  Violet  re- 
pented, but  Hugh  grew  suspicious,  and  at  the 
psychological  moment  there  came  down  from 
town  a  destroyer  of  delights  and  a  separator 
of  companions  in  the  shape  of  a  tricycle.  Also 
there  were  many  little  boys  on  the  beach — 
rude,  shouting,  romping  little  chaps — who  said : 
"Come  along!"  "Hullo!"  and  used  the  wicked 
word  "beastly!"  Among  these  Hugh  became 
a  person  of  importance  and  began  to  realise 
that  he  was  a  man  who  could  say  "beastly," 
and  "Come  on!"  with  the  best  of  'em.  He  pre- 
ferred to  run  about  with  the  little  boys  on 
wars  and  expeditions,  and  he  wriggled  away 
when  Violet  put  her  arm  round  his  waist. 
Violet  was  hurt  and  angry,  and  I  think  she 
[  242  ] 


LETTERS  ON  LEAVE 

slapped  Hugh.  Relations  were  strained  when 
I  arrived  because  one  morning  Violet,  after 
asking  permission,  invited  Hugh  to  come  to 
lunch.  And  that  bad,  Spanish-eyed  boy  de- 
liberately filled  his  bucket  with  the  cold  sea- 
water  and  dashed  it  over  Violet's  pink  ankles. 
(Joking  apart,  this  seems  to  be  about  the  best 
way  of  refusing  an  invitation  that  civilisation 
can  invent.  Try  it  on  your  Colonel.)  She 
was  madly  angry  for  a  moment,  and  then  she 
said:  "Let  me  carry  you  up  the  beach,  'cause 
of  the  shingles  in  your  toes."  This  was  divine, 
but  it  didn't  move  Hugh,  and  Violet  went  off 
to  her  mother.  She  sat  down  with  her  chin 
in  her  hand,  looking  out  at  the  sea  for  a  long 
time  very  sorrowfully.  Then  she  said,  and  it 
was  her  first  experience:  "I  know  that  Hugh 
cares  more  for  his  horrid  bicycle  than  he  does 
for  me,  and  if  he  said  he  didn't  I  wouldn't 
believe  him." 

Up  to  date  Hugh  has  said  nothing.   He  is 
running  about  playing  with  the  bold,  bad  little 
boys,  and  Violet  is  sitting  on  a  breakwater, 
trying  to  find  out  why  things  are  as  they  are. 
[  243] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

It's  a  nice  tale,  and  tales  are  scarce  these  days. 
Have  you  noticed  how  small  and  elemental 
is  the  stock  of  them  at  the  world's  disposal? 
Men  foregathered  at  that  little  seaside  place, 
and,  manlike,  exchanged  stories.  They  were 
all  the  same  stories.  One  had  heard  'em  in 
the  East  with  Eastern  variations,  and  in  the 
West  with  Western  extravagances  tacked  on. 
Only  one  thing  seemed  new,  and  it  was  merely 
a  phrase  used  by  a  groom  in  speaking  of  an 
ill-conditioned  horse:  "No,  sir;  he's  not  ill  in 
a  manner  o'  speaking,  but  he's  so  to  speak 
generally  unfriendly  with  his  innards  as  a  usual 
thing." 

I  entrust  this  to  you  as  a  sacred  gift.  See 
that  it  takes  root  in  the  land.  "Unfriendly  with 
his  innards  as  a  usual  thing."  Remember. 
It's  better  than  laboured  explanations  in  the 
rains.  And  I  fancy  it's  raw. 

And  now.  But  I  had  nearly  forgotten. 
We're  a  nation  of  grumblers,  and  that's  why 
other  people  call  Anglo-Indians  bores.  I  write 

feelingly  because  M  ,  just  home  on  long 

leave,  has  for  the  second  time  sat  on  my  de- 
[244] 


LETTERS  ON  LEAVE 


voted  head  for  two  hours  simply  and  solely 
for  the  purpose  of  swearing  at  the  Accountant  - 
General.  He  has  given  me  the  whole  history 
of  his  pay,  prospects  and  promotion  twice 
over,  and  in  case  I  should  misunderstand  wants 
me  to  dine  with  him  and  hear  it  all  for  the 

third  time.   If  M  would  leave  the  A.-G. 

alone  he  is  a  delightful  man,  as  we  all  know; 
but  he's  loose  in  London  now,  button-holing 
English  friends  and  quoting  leave  and  pay- 
codes  to  them.  He  wants  to  see  a  Member  of 
Parliament  about  something  or  other,  and  I 
believe  he  spends  his  nights  rolled  up  in  a' 
rezai  on  the  stairs  of  the  India  Office  waiting 
to  catch  a  secretary.  I  like  the  India  Office. 
They  are  so  beautifully  casual  and  lazy,  and 
their  rooms  look  out  over  the  Green  Park,  and 
they  are  never  tired  of  admiring  the  view. 
Now  and  then  a  man  comes  in  to  report  him- 
self, and  the  secretaries  and  the  under-secre- 
taries  and  the  chaprassies  play  battledore  and 
shuttlecock  with  him  until  they  are  tired. 

Some  time  since,  when  I  was  better,  more 
serious  and  earnest  than  I  am  now,  I  preached 
[245] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

a  jehad  up  and  down  those  echoing  corridors, 
and  suggested  the  abolition  of  the  India  Office 
and  the  purchase  of  a  four-pound-ten  Ameri- 
can revolving  bookcase  to  hold  all  the  documents 
on  India  that  were  of  public  value  or  could  be 
comprehended  by  the  public.  Now  I  am  more 
frivolous  because  I  am  dropping  gently  into 
that  grave  at  Woking;  and  yet  I  believe  in  the 
bookcase.  India  is  bowed  down  with  too  much 
duftar  as  it  is,  and  the  House  of  Correction, 
Revision,  Division  and  Supervision  cannot  do 
her  much  good.  I  saw  a  committee  or  a  coun- 
cil file  in  the  other  day.  Only  one  desirable 
tale  came  to  me  out  of  that  office.  If  you've 
heard  it  before  stop  me.  It  began  with  a  cut- 
ting from  an  obscure  Welsh  paper,  I  think, 
A  man — a  gardener — went  mad,  announced 
that  Lord  Cross  was  the  Messiah  and  burned 
himself  alive  on  a  pile  of  garden  refuse.  That's 
the  first  part.  I  never  could  get  at  the  second, 
but  I  am  credibly  informed  that  the  work 
of  the  India  Office  stood  still  for  three  weeks, 
while  the  entire  staff  took  council  how  to  break 
[246] 


LETTERS  ON  LEAVE 

the  news  to  the  Secretary  of  State.  I  believe 
it  still  remains  unbroken. 

Decidedly,  leave  in  England  is  a  disappoint- 
ing thing.  I've  wandered  into  two  stations 
since  I  wrote  the  last.  Nothing  but  the  labels 
on  the  bag  remain — oh,  and  a  memory  of  a 
weighing-in  at  an  East  End  fishing  club.  That 
was  an  experience.  I  foregathered  with  a  man 
on  the  top  of  a  'bus,  and  we  became  great 
friends  because  we  both  agreed  that  gorge- 
tackle  for  pike  was  only  permissible  in  very 
weedy  streams.  He  repeated  his  views,  which 
were  my  views,  nearly  ten  times,  and  in  the 
evening  invited  me  to  this  weighing-in,  at, 
we'll  say,  rooms  of  the  Lea  and  Chertsey  Pis- 
catorial Anglers'  Benevolent  Brotherhood. 
We  assembled  in  a  room  at  the  top  of  a  public- 
house,  the  walls  ornamented  with  stuffed  fish 
and  water-birds,  and  the  anglers  came  in  by 
twos  and  threes,  and  I  was  introduced  to  all 
of  'em  as  "the  gen'elman  I  met  just  now." 
This  seemed  to  be  good  enough  for  all  prac- 
tical purposes.  There  were  ten  and  five 
[247] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

shilling  prizes,  and  the  affable  and  energetic 
clerk  of  the  scales  behaved  as  though  he  were 
weighing-in  for  the  Lucknow  races.  The  take 
of  the  day  was  one  pound  fifteen  ounces  of 
dace  and  roach,  about  twenty  fingerlings,  and 
the  winner,  who  is  in  charge  of  a  railway  book- 
stall, described  minutely  how  he  had  caught 
each  fish.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  roach-fishing 
in  the  Lea  and  Thames  is  a  fine  art.  Then 
there  were  drinks — modest  little  drinks — and 
they  called  upon  me  for  a  sentiment.  You 
know  how  things  go  at  the  sergeants'  messes 
and  some  of  the  lodges.  In  a  moment  of  bril- 
liant inspiration  I  gave  "free  fishing  in  the 
parks"  and  brought  down  the  whole  house. 
Sah!  free  fishing  for  coarse  fish  in  the  Serpen- 
tine and  the  Green  Park  water  would  hurt 
nobody  and  do  a  great  deal  of  good  to  many. 
The  stocking  of  the  water — but  what  does  this 
interest  you?  The  Englishman  moves  slowly. 
He  is  just  beginning  to  understand  that  it  is 
not  sufficient  to  set  apart  a  certain  amount  of 
land  for  a  lung  of  London  and  to  turn  people 
into  it  with  "There,  get  along  and  play,"  un- 
[248] 


LETTERS  ON  LEAVE 

less  he  gives  'em  something  to  play  with. 
Thirty  years  hence  he  will  almost  allow  cafes 
and  hired  bands  in  Hyde  Park. 

To  return  for  a  moment  to  the  fish  club.  I 
got  away  at  eleven,  and  in  darkness  and  des- 
pair had  to  make  my  way  west  for  leagues  and 
leagues  across  London.  I  was  on  the  Mile 
End  Road  at  midnight  and  there  lost  myself, 
and  learned  something  more  about  the  police- 
man. He  is  haughty  in  the  East  and  always 
afraid  that  he  is  being  chaffed.  I  honestly  only 
wanted  sailing  directions  to  get  homeward. 
One  policeman  said :  "Get  along.  You  know 
your  way  as  well  as  I  do."  And  yet  another: 
"You  go  back  to  the  country  where  you  corned 
from.  You  ain't  doin'  no  good  'ere!"  It  was 
so  deadly  true  that  I  couldn't  answer  back, 
and  there  wasn't  an  expensive  cab  handy  to 
prove  my  virtue  and  respectability.  Next  time 
I  visit  the  Lea  and  Chertsey  Affabilities  I'll 
find  out  something  about  trains.  Meantime  I 
keep  holiday  dolefully.  There  is  not  anybody 
to  play  with  me.  They  have  all  gone  away 
to  their  own  places.  Even  the  Infant,  who  is 
[249] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

generally  the  idlest  man  in  the  world,  writes 
me  that  he  is  helping  to  steer  a  ten-ton  yacht 
in  Scottish  seas.  When  she  heels  over  too 
much  the  Infant  is  driven  to  the  O.  P.  side 
and  she  rights  herself.  The  Infant's  host  says : 
"Isn't  this  bracing?  Isn't  this  delightful?" 
And  the  Infant,  who  lives  in  dread  of  a  chill 
bringing  back  his  Indian  fever,  has  to  say 
"Ye-es,"  and  pretend  to  despise  overcoats. 
Wallah!   This  is  a  cheerful  world. 

Rudyard  Kipling. 


[250] 


THE  ADORATION  OF  THE  MAGE* 


THIS  is  a  slim,  thin  little  story,  but  it 
serves  to  explain  a  great  many  things. 
I  picked  it  up  in  a  four-wheeler  in 
the  company  of  an  eminent  novelist, 
a  pink-eyed  young  gentleman  who  lived  on  his 
income,  and  a  gentleman  who  knew  more  than 
he  ought ;  and  I  preserved  it,  thinking  it  would 
serve  to  interest  you.  It  may  be  an  old  story, 
but  the  G.W.K.T.H.O.,  whom,  for  the  sake 
of  brevity,  we  will  call  Captain  Kydd,  de- 
clared that  his  best  friend  had  heard  it  himself. 
Consequently,  I  doubted  its  newness  more  than 
ever.  For  when  a  man  raises  his  voice  and 
vows  that  the  incident  occurred  opposite  his 
own  Club  window,  all  the  listening  world 
know  that  they  are  about  to  hear  what  is 
vulgarly  called  a  cracker.     This  rule  holds 

♦"Turnovers,"  No.  IX. 

[251] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

good  in  London  as  well  as  in  Lahore.  When 
we  left  the  house  of  the  highly  distinguished 
politician  who  had  been  entertaining  us,  we 
stepped  into  a  London  Particular,  which  has 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  story,  but 
was  interesting  from  the  little  fact  that  we 
could  not  see  our  hands  before  our  faces.  The 
black,  brutal  fog  had  turned  each  gas-jet  into 
a  pin-prick  of  light,  visible  only  at  six  inches 
range.  There  were  no  houses,  there  were  no 
pavements.  There  were  no  points  of  the  com- 
pass. There  were  only  the  eminent  novelist, 
the  young  gentleman  with  the  pink  eyes,  Cap- 
tain Kydd  and  myself,  holding  each  other's 
shoulders  in  the  gloom  of  Tophet.  Then  the 
eminent  novelist  delivered  himself  of  an  epi- 
gram. 

"Let's  go  home,"  said  he. 

"Let  us  try,"  said  Captain  Kydd,  and  in- 
continently fell  down  an  area  into  some- 
body's kitchen  yard  and  disappeared  into 
chaos.  When  he  had  climbed  out  again  we 
heard  a  something  on  wheels  swearing  even 
worse  than  Captain  Kydd  was,  all  among  the 
[252] 


THE  ADORATION  OF  THE  MAGE 


railings  of  a  square.  So. we  shouted,  and  pres- 
ently a  four-wheeler  drove  gracefully  on  to 
the  pavement. 

"I'm  trying  to  get  'ome,"  said  the  cabby. 
"But  if  you  gents  make  it  worth  while  .  .  . 
though  heaven  knows  'ow  we  ever  shall.  Guess 
'arf  a  crown  apiece  might  .  .  .  and  any'ow  I 
won't  promise  anywheres  in  particular." 

The  cabby  kept  his  word  nobly.  He  did  not 
find  anywheres  in  particular,  but  he  found  sev- 
eral places.  First  he  discovered  a  pavement 
kerb  and  drove  pressing  his  wheel  against  it 
till  we  came  to  a  lamp-post,  and  that  we  hit 
grievously.  Then  he  came  to  what  ought  to 
have  been  a  corner,  but  was  a  'bus,  and  we 
embraced  the  thing  amid  terrific  language. 
Then  he  sailed  out  into  nothing  at  all — blank 
fog — and  there  he  commended  himself  to 
heaven  and  his  horse  to  the  other  place,  while 
the  eminent  novelist  put  his  head  out  of  the 
window  and  gave  directions.  I  begin  to  un- 
derstand now  why  the  eminent  novelist's  vil- 
lains are  so  lifelike  and  his  plots  so  obscure. 
He  has  a  marvellous  breadth  of  speech,  but  no 
[253] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

ingenuity  in  directing  the  course  of  events.  We 
drove  into  the  island  of  refuge  near  the  Bromp- 
ton  Oratory  just  when  he  was  telling  the  cabby 
to  be  sure  and  avoid  the  Regents'  Park  Canal. 

Then  we  began  to  talk  about  the  weather 
and  Mister  Gladstone.  If  an  Englishman  is 
unhappy  he  always  talks  about  Mister  Glad- 
stone in  terms  of  reproof.  The  eminent  novel- 
ist was  a  socialistic-Neo-Plastic-Unionistic- 
Demagoglot  Radical  of  the  Extreme  Left,  and 
that  is  the  latest  novelty  of  the  thing  yet  in- 
vented. He  withdrew  his  head  to  answer  Cap- 
tain Kydd's  arguments,  which  were  forcible. 
"Well,  you'll  admit  he's  all  sorts  of  a  mad- 
man," said  Captain  Kydd  sweetly. 

"He's  a  saint,"  said  the  eminent  novelist, 
"and  he  moves  in  an  atmosphere  that  you  and 
those  like  you  cannot  breathe." 

"Yes,  I  always  said  it  was  a  pretty  thick  fog. 
Now  I  know  it's  as  thick  as  this  one.  I  say, 
we're  on  the  pavement  again;  we  shall  be  in 
a  shop  in  a  minute,"  said  Captain  Kydd. 

But  I  wanted  to  see  the  eminent  novelist 
[254] 


THE  ADORATION  OF  THE  MAGE 

fight,  so  I  reintroduced  Mister  Gladstone  while 
the  cah  crawled  up  a  wall. 

"It's  not  exactly  a  wholesome  atmosphere," 
said  Captain  Kydd  when  the  novelist  had  fin- 
ished speaking.  "That  reminds  me  of  a  story 
— perfectly  true  story.  In  the  old  days,  before 
he  went  off  his  chump — " 

"Yah-h-h!"  said  the  eminent  novelist,  wrap- 
ping himself  in  his  Inverness. 

" — went  off  his  nut,  he  used  to  consort  a 
good  deal  with  his  friends  on  his  own  side — 
visit  'em,  y'  know,  and  deliver  addresses  out 
of  their  own  bedroom  windows,  and  steal  their 
postcards,  and  generally  be  friendly.  Well, 
one  man  he  stayed  with  had  a  house,  a  countiy 
house,  y'  know,  and  in  the  garden  there  was 
a  path  which  was  supposed  to  divide  Kent  and 
Surrey  or  some  counties.  They  led  the  old 
man  forth  for  his  walk,  y'  know,  and  followed 
him  in  gangs  to  hear  that  the  weather  was  fine, 
and  of  course  his  host  pointed  out  the  path, 
the  old  man  took  in  the  situation,  and  put  one 
I  daresay  they  had  strewn  rose-leaves  on  it, 
or  spread  it  with  homespun  trousers.  Anyhow, 
[255  ] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


one  leg  on  one  side  of  the  path  and  the  other 
on  the  other,  and  with  one  of  those  wonderful 
flashes  of  humour  that  come  to  him  when  he 
chooses  to  frisk  among  his  friends,  he  said: 
'Now  I  am  in  Kent  and  in  Surrey  at  the  same 
time.'  " 

Captain  Kydd  ceased  speaking  as  the  cab 
tried  to  force  a  way  into  the  South  Kensington 
Museum. 

"Well,  what's  there  in  that?"  said  the  emi- 
nent novelist. 

"Oh,  nothing  much.  Let's  see  how  it  goes 
afterwards.  Mrs.  Gladstone,  who  was  close 
behind  him,  turned  round  and  whispered  to 
the  hostess  in  an  ecstatic  shriek:  'Oh,  Mrs. 
Whateverhernamewas,  j^ou  will  plant  a  tree 
there,  won't  you?' " 

"By  Jove!"  said  the  young  gentleman  with 
the  pink  eyes. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  the  eminent  novelist. 

I  said  nothing,  but  it  seemed  very  likely. 
Captain  Kydd  laughed:  "Well,  I  don't  con- 
sider that  sort  of  atmosphere  exactly  whole- 
some, y'  know." 

[256] 


THE  ADORATION  OF  THE  MAGE 

And  when  the  cab  had  landed  us  in  the 
drinking- fountain  in  High  Street,  Kensing- 
ton, and  the  horse  fell  down,  and  the  cabby 
collected  our  half-crowns  and  gave  us  his  beery- 
blessing,  and  I  had  to  grope  my  way  home  on 
foot,  it  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  you  might 
be  interested  in  that  anecdote.  As  I  have  said, 
it  explains  a  great  deal  more  than  appears  at 
first  sight. 


[257] 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  CAMP* 

WO  awful  catastrophes  have  occurred. 


One  Englishman  in  London  is  dead, 


and  I  have  scandalised  about  twenty 
of  his  nearest  and  dearest  friends. 


He  was  a  man  nearly  seventy  years  old,  en- 
gaged in  the  business  of  an  architect,  and  im- 
mensely respected.  That  was  all  I  knew  about 
him  till  I  began  to  circulate  among  his  friends 
in  these  parts,  trying  to  cheer  them  up  and 
make  them  forget  the  fog. 

"Hush!"  said  a  man  and  his  wife.  "Don't 
you  know  he  died  yesterday  of  a  sudden  at- 
tack of  pneumonia?   Isn't  it  shocking?" 

"Yes,"  said  I  vaguely.  "Aw'fly  shocking. 
Has  he  left  his  wife  provided  for?" 

"Oh,  he's  very  well  off  indeed,  and  his  wife  is 
quite  old.   But  just  think — it  was  only  in  the 


•"Turnovers,"  No.  IX. 

[258] 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  CAMP 


next  street  it  happened!"  Then  I  saw  that 
their  grief  was  not  for  Strangeways,  deceased, 
but  for  themselves. 

"How  old  was  he?"  I  said. 

"Nearly  seventy,  or  maybe  a  little  over." 

"About  time  for  a  man  to  rationally  expect 
such  a  thing  as  death,"  I  thought,  and  went 
away  to  another  house,  where  a  young  married 
couple  lived. 

"Isn't  it  perfectly  ghastly?"  said  the  wife. 
"Mr.  Strangeways  died  last  night." 

"So  I  heard,"  said  I.  "Well,  he  had  lived 
his  life." 

"Yes,  but  it  was  such  a  shockingly  short 
illness.  Why,  only  three  weeks  ago  he  was 
walking  about  the  street."  And  she  looked 
nervously  at  her  husband,  as  though  she  ex- 
pected him  to  give  up  the  ghost  at  any  minute. 

Then  I  gathered,  with  the  knowledge  of  the 
length  of  his  sickness,  that  her  grief  was  not 
for  the  late  Mr.  Strangeways,  and  went  away 
thinking  over  men  and  women  I  had  known 
who  would  have  given  a  thousand  years  in 
Purgatory  for  even  a  week  wherein  to  arrange 
[  259  ] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

their  affairs,  and  who  were  anything  but  well 
off. 

I  passed  on  to  a  third  house  full  of  chil- 
dren, and  the  shadow  of  death  hung  over  their 
heads,  for  father  and  mother  were  talking  of 
Mr.  Strangeway's  "end."  "Most  shocking," 
said  they.  "It  seems  that  his  wife  was  in  the 
next  room  when  he  was  dying,  and  his  only 
son  called  her,  so  she  just  had  time  to  take 
him  in  her  arms  before  he  died.  He  was  un- 
conscious at  the  last.  Wasn't  it  awful?" 

When  I  went  away  from  that  house  I 
thought  of  men  and  women  without  a  week 
wherein  to  arrange  their  affairs,  and  without 
any  money,  who  were  anything  but  uncon- 
scious at  the  last,  and  who  would  have  given  a 
thousand  years  in  Purgatory  for  one  glimpse 
at  their  mothers,  their  wives  or  their  husbands. 
I  reflected  how  these  people  died  tended  by 
hirelings  and  strangers,  and  I  was  not  in  the 
least  ashamed  to  say  that  I  laughed  over  Mr. 
Strangeways'  death  as  I  entered  the  house  of 
a  brother  in  his  craft. 

"Heard  of  Strangeways'  death?"  said  he. 
[260] 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  CAMP 


"Most  hideous  thing.  Why,  he  had  only  a 
few  days  before  got  news  of  his  designs  being 
accepted  by  the  Burgoyne  Cathedral.  If  he 
had  lived  he  would  have  been  working  out  the 
deails  now — with  me."  And  I  saw  that  this 
man's  fear  also  was  not  on  account  of  Mr. 
Strangeways.  And  I  thought  of  men  and 
women  who  had  died  in  the  midst  of  wrecked 
work ;  then  I  sought  a  company  of  young  men 
and  heard  them  talk  of  the  dead.  "That's  the 
second  death  among  people  I  know  within  the 
year,"  said  one.  "Yes,  the  second  death,"  said 
another. 

I  smiled  a  very  large  smile. 

"And  you  know,"  said  a  third,  who  was  the 
oldest  of  the  party,  "they've  opened  the  new 
road  by  the  head  of  Tresillion  Road,  and  the 
wind  blows  straight  across  that  level  square 
from  the  Parks.  Everything  is  changing  about 
us." 

"He  was  an  old  man,"  I  said. 
"Ye-es.     More  than  middle-aged,"  said 
they. 

"And  he  outlived  his  reputation?" 
[261] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


"Oh,  no,  or  how  would  he  have  taken  the  de- 
signs for  the  Burgoyne  Cathedral?  Why,  the 
very  day  he  died    .  . 

"  Yes,"  said  I.  "He  died  at  the  end  of  a 
completed  work — his  design  finished,  his  prize 
awarded?" 

"Yes ;  but  he  didn't  live  to    .    .  ." 

"And  his  illness  lasted  seventeen  days,  of 
twenty-four  hours  each?" 

"Yes." 

"And  he  was  tended  by  his  own  kith  and 
kin.  dying  with  his  head  on  his  wife's  breast, 
his  hand  in  his  only  son's  hand,  without  any 
thought  of  their  possible  poverty  to  vex  him. 
Are  these  things  so?" 

"Ye-es,"  said  they.    "Wasn't  it  shocking?" 

"Shocking?"  I  said.  "Get  out  of  this  place. 
Go  forth,  run  about  and  see  what  death  really 
means.  You  have  described  such  dying  as  a 
god  might  envy  and  a  king  might  pay  half 
his  ransom  to  make  certain  of.  Wait  till  you 
have  seen  men — strong  men  of  thirty-five,  with 
little  children,  die  at  two  days'  notice,  penni- 
less and  alone,  and  seen  it  not  once,  but  twenty 
[  262  ] 


A  DEATH  IN  THE  CAMP 

times;  wait  till  you  have  seen  the  young  girl 
die  within  a  fortnight  of  the  wedding;  or  the 
lover  within  three  days  of  his  marriage ;  or  the 
mother — sixty  little  minutes — before  her  son 
can  come  to  her  side;  wait  till  you  hesitate 
before  handling  your  daily  newspaper  for  fear 
of  reading  of  the  death  of  some  young  man 
that  you  have  dined  with,  drank  with,  shot  with, 
lent  money  to  and  borrowed  money  from,  and 
tested  to  the  uttermost — till  you  dare  not  hope 
for  the  death  of  an  old  man,  but,  when  you 
are  strongest,  count  up  the  tale  of  your  ac- 
quaintances and  friends,  wondering  how  many 
will  be  alive  six  months  hence.  Wait  till  you 
have  heard  men  calling  in  the  death  hour  on 
kin  that  cannot  come ;  till  you  have  dined  with 
a  man  one  night  and  seen  him  buried  on  the 
next.  Then  you  can  begin  to  whimper  about 
loneliness  and  change  and  desolation."  Here 
I  foamed  at  the  mouth. 

"And  do  you  mean  to  say,"  drawled  a  young 
gentleman,  "that  there  is  any  society  in  which 
that  sort  of  holocaust  goes  on?" 

[  263] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

"I  do,"  said  I.  "It's  not  society;  it's  life." 
And  they  laughed. 

But  this  is  the  old  tale  of  Pharaoh's  chariot- 
wheel  and  flying-fish. 

If  I  tell  them  yarns,  they  say:  "How  true! 
How  true !"  If  I  try  to  present  the  truth,  they 
say:  "What  superb  imagination!" 

But  you  understand,  don't  you?" 


[264] 


A  REALLY  GOOD  TIME* 
HERE  are  times  when  one  wants  to 


get  into  pyjamas  and  stretch  and  loll, 


and  explain  things  generally.  This 
is  one  of  those  times.  It  is  impossi- 
ble to  stand  at  ease  in  London,  and  the  in- 
habitants are  so  abominably  egotistical  that 
one  cannot  shout  "I,  I,  I"  for  two  minutes 
without  another  man  joining  in  with  "Me, 
too!"   Which  things  are  an  allegory. 

The  amusement  began  with  a  gentleman  of 
infinite  erudition  offering  to  publish  my  auto- 
biography. I  was  to  write  a  string  of  legends 
— he  would  publish  them;  and  would  I  for- 
ward a  cheque  for  five  guineas  "to  cover  in- 
cidental expenses?"  To  him  I  explained  that 
I  wanted  five  guinea  cheques  myself  very  much 
indeed,  and  that,  emboldened  by  his  letter, 

♦"Turnovers,"  No.  IX. 


[  265  ] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

which  gave  me  a  very  fair  insight  into  his  char- 
acter, I  was  even  then  maturing  his  autobiogra- 
phy, which  I  hoped  to  publish  before  long  with 
illustrations,  and  would  he  forward  a  cheque 
for  five  guineas  "to  cover  incidental  expenses?" 
This  brought  me  an  eight-page  compilation 
of  contumely.  He  was  grieved  to  find  that 
he  had  been  mistaken  in  my  character,  which 
he  had  believed  was,  at  least,  elevated.  He 
begged  me  to  remember  that  the  first  letter 
had  been  written  in  the  strictest  confidence, 
and  that  if  I  notated  one  tittle  of  the  said  "re- 
pository" he  would  unkennel  the  bloodhounds 
of  the  law  and  hunt  me  down.  An  autobiog- 
raphy on  the  lines  that  I  had  "so  flippantly 
proposed"  was  libel  without  benefit  of  author- 
ship, and  I  had  better  lend  him  two  guineas — 
I.O.U.  enclosed — to  salve  his  lacerated  feel- 
ings. I  replied  that  I  had  his  autobiography 
by  me  in  manuscript,  and  would  post  it  to  his 
address,  V.P.P.,  two  guineas  and  one-half. 
He  evidently  knew  nothing  about  the  V.P.P., 
and  the  correspondence  stopped.  It  is  really 
very  hard  for  an  Anglo-Indian  to  get  along 
[  266] 


A  REALLY  GOOD  TIME 

in  London.  Besides,  my  autobiography  is  not 
a  thing  I  should  care  to  make  public  before 
extensive  Bowdlerisation. 

These  things,  however,  only  led  up  to  much 
worse.  I  dare  not  grin  over  them  unless  I 
step  aside  Eastward.  I  wrote  stories,  all  about 
little  pieces  of  India,  carefully  arranged  and 
expurgated  for  the  English  public.  Then  vari- 
ous people  began  to  write  about  them.  One 
gentleman  pointed  out  that  I  had  taken  "the 
well-worn  themes  of  passion,  love,  despair  and 
fate,"  and,  thanks  to  the  "singular  fascination" 
of  my  style  had  "wrought  them  into  new  and 
glowing  fabricks  instinct  with-  the  eternal 
vitality  of  the  East."  For  three  days  after 
this  chit  I  was  almost  too  proud  to  speak  to 
the  housemaid  with  the  fan-teeth  (there  is  a 
story  about  her  that  I  will  tell  another  time). 
On  the  fourth  day  another  gentleman  made 
clear  that  that  beautiful  style  was  "tortuous, 
elaborated  and  inept,"  and  it  was  only  on  ac- 
count of  the  "newness  of  the  subjects  handled 
so  crabbedly"  that  I  "arrested  the  attention  of 
the  public  for  a  day."  Then  I  wept  before  the 
[267] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


housemaid,  and  she  called  me  a  "real  gentle- 
man" because  I  gave  her  a  shilling. 

Then  I  tried  an  all-round  cannon — pub- 
lished one  thing  under  one  name  and  another 
under  another,  and  sat  still  to  watch.  A  gen- 
tleman, who  also  speaks  with  authority  on 
Literature  and  Art,  came  to  me  and  said:  "I 
don't  deny  that  there  is  a  great  deal  of  clever 
and  superficial  fooling  in  that  last  thing  of 
yours  in  the — I've  forgotten  what  it  was  called 
— but  do  you  yourself  think  that  you  have  that 
curious,  subtle  grip  on  and  instinct  of  matters 
Oriental  that  that  other  man  shows  in  his  study 
of  native  life?"  And  he  mentioned  the  name 
of  my  Other  Self.  I  bowed  my  head,  and  my 
shoulders  shook  with  repentance  and  grief. 
"No,"  said  L  "It's  so  true,"  said  he.  "Yes," 
said  I.  "So  feeling,"  said  he.  "Indeed  it  is," 
said  I.  "Such  honest  work,  too!"  said  he. 
"Oh,  awful!"  said  I.  "Think  it  over,"  said  he, 
"and  try  to  follow  his  path."  "I  will,"  said  I. 
And  when  he  left  I  danced  sarabands  with  the 
housemaid  of  the  fan-teeth  till  she  wanted  to 
know  whether  I  had  bought  "spirruts." 
[  268  ] 


A  REALLY  GOOD  TIME 

Then  another  man  came  along  and  sat  on 
my  sofa  and  hailed  me  as  a  brother.  "And  I 
know  that  we  are  kindred  souls,"  said  he,  "be- 
cause I  feel  sure  that  you  have  evolved  all  the 
dreamy  mystery  and  curious  brutality  of  the 
British  soldier  from  the  pure  realm  of  fancy." 
"I  did,"  I  said.  "If  you  went  into  a  barrack- 
room  you  would  see  at  once."  "Faugh!"  said 
he.  "What  have  we  to  do  with  barrack-rooms? 
The  pure  air  of  fancy  feeds  us  both;  keep  to 
that.  If  you  are  trammelled  by  the  bitter, 
bornee  truth,  you  are  lost.  You  die  the  death 
of  Zola.  Invention  is  the  only  test  of  creation." 
"Of  course,"  said  I.  "Zola's  a  bold,  bad  man. 
Not  a  patch  on  you"  I  hadn't  caught  his 
name,  but  I  fancied  that  would  prevent  him 
flinging  himself  about  on  my  sofa,  which  is  a 
cheap  one.  "I  don't  say  that  altogether,"  he 
said.  "He  has  his  strong  points.  But  he  is 
deficient  in  imaginative  constructiveness.  You, 
I  see  from  what  you  have  said,  will  belong  to 
the  Neo-Gynekalistic  school."  I  knew  "Gyne" 
meant  something  about  cow-killing,  and  was 
prepared  to  hedge  when  he  said  good-bye,  and 
[  269  ] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


wrote  an  article  about  my  ways  and  works, 
which  brought  another  man  to  my  door  spout- 
ing foam. 

"Great  Landor's  ghost!"  he  said.  "What 
under  the  stars  has  possessed  you  to  join  the 
Gynekalistic  lot?"  "I  haven't,"  I  said.  "I 
believe  in  municipal  regulation  of  slaughter- 
houses, if  there  is  a  strong  Deputy  Commis- 
sioner to  control  the  Muhammadan  butchers, 
especially  in  the  hot  weather,  but  .  .  ."  "This 
is  madness,"  said  he.  "Your  reputation  is  at 
stake.  You  must  make  it  clear  to  the  world 
that  you  have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
the  flatulent,  unballasted  fiction  of  .  .  ."  "Do 
you  suppose  the  world  cares  a  tuppeny  dam?" 
said  I. 

Then  he  raged  afresh,  and  left  me,  pointing 
out  that  the  Gynewallahs  wrote  about  noth- 
ing but  women — which  seems  rather  an  un- 
limited subject — and  that  I  would  die  the  death 
of  a  French  author  whose  name  I  have  for- 
gotten.   But  it  wasn't  Zola  this  time. 

I  asked  the  housemaid  what  in  the  world  the 
Gynekalisthenics  were.  "La,  sir,"  said  she, 
[  270] 


A  REALLY  GOOD  TIME 

"it's  only  their  way  of  being  rude.  That  fat 
gentleman  with  the  long  hair  tried  to  kiss  me 
when  I  opened  the  door.  I  slapped  his  fat 
chops  for  him." 

Now  the  crisis  is  at  its  height.  All  the  entire 
round  world,  composed,  as  far  as  I  can  learn, 
of  the  Gynekalistic  and  the  anti-Gynekalistic 
man,  and  two  or  three  loafers,  are  trying  to 
find  out  to  what  school  I  rightly  belong.  They 
seem  to  use  what  they  are  pleased  to  call  my 
reputation  as  a  bolster  through  which  to  stab 
at  the  foe.  One  gentleman  is  proving  that  I 
am  a  bit  of  a  blackguard,  probably  reduced 
from  the  ranks,  rather  an  impostor,  and  a 
considerable  amount  of  plagiarist.  The  other 
man  denies  the  reduction  from  the  ranks,  with- 
holds judgment  about  the  plagiarism,  but 
would  like,  in  the  interest  of  the  public — who 
are  at  present  exclusively  occupied  with  Bar- 
num — to  prove  it  true,  and  is  convinced  that 
my  style  is  "hermaphroditic."  I  have  all  the 
money  on  the  first  man.  He  is  on  the  eve  of 
discovering  that  I  stole  a  dead  Tommy's  diary 
just  before  I  was  drummed  out  of  the  service 
[271] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

for  desertion,  and  have  lived  on  the  proceeds 
ever  since.  "Do  yew  know,"  as  the  Private 
Secretary  said  at  Simla  this  year,  "it's  re- 
markably hard  for  an  Anglo-Indian  to  get 
along  in  England." 

Shakl  hai  lekin  ukl  nahin  hai! 


[272] 


ON  EXHIBITION* 


IT  makes  me  blush  pink  all  over  to  think 
about  it,  but,  none  the  less,  I  have 
brought  the  tale  to  you,  confident  that 
you  will  understand.  An  invitation  to 
tea  arrived  at  my  address.  The  English  are 
very  peculiar  people  about  their  tea.  They 
don't  seem  to  understand  that  it  is  a  function 
at  which  any  one  who  is  passing  down  the 
Mall  may  present  himself.  They  issue  formal 
cards — just  as  if  tea-drinking  were  like 
dancing.  My  invitation  said  that  I  was  to 
tea  from  4:30  till  6  p.m.,  and  there  was  never 
a  word  of  lawn-tennis  on  the  whole  of  the  card. 
I  knew  the  English  were  heavy  eaters,  but  this 
amazed  me.  "What  in  the  wide  world," 
thought  I,  "will  they  find  to  do  for  an  hour 
and  a  half?    Perhaps  they'll  play  games,  as 


♦"Turnovers,"  No.  IX. 

[273] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

it's  near  Christmas  time.  They  can't  sit  out 
in  the  verandah,  and  chabutras  are  impossible." 

Wherefore  I  went  to  this  house  prepared 
for  anything.  There  was  a  fine  show  of  damp 
wraps  in  the  hall,  and  a  cheerful  babble  of 
voices  from  the  other  side  of  the  drawing-room 
door.  The  hostess  ran  at  me,  vehemently 
shouting:  "Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come. 
We  were  all  talking  about  you."  As  the  room 
was  entirely  filled  with  strangers,  chiefly  fe- 
male, I  reflected  that  they  couldn't  have  said 
anything  very  bad.  Then  I  was  introduced 
to  everybody,  and  some  of  the  people  were 
talking  in  couples,  and  didn't  want  to  be  in- 
terrupted in  the  least,  and  some  were  behind 
settees,  and  some  were  in  difficulty  with  their 
tea-cups,  and  one  and  all  had  exactly  the  same 
name.   That  is  the  worst  of  a  lisping  hostess. 

Almost  before  I  had  dropped  the  last  limp 
hand,  a  burly  ruffian,  with  a  beard,  rumbled  in 
my  ear:  "I  trust  you  were  satisfied  with  my 
estimate  of  your  powers  in  last  week's  Con- 
certina?" 

Now  I  don't  see  the  Concertina  because  it's 
[274] 


ON  EXHIBITION 

too  expensive,  but  I  murmured:  "Immense! 
immense!  Most  gratifying.  Totally  unde- 
served." And  the  ruffian  said :  "In  a  measure, 
yes.   Not  wholly.    I  flatter  myself  that  " 

"Oh,  not  in  the  least,"  said  I.  "No  sugar, 
thanks."  This  to  the  hostess,  who  was  waving 
Sally  Lunns  under  my  nose.  A  female,  who 
could  not  have  been  less  than  seven  feet  high, 
came  on,  half  speed  ahead,  through  the  fog 
of  the  tea-steam,  and  docked  herself  on  the 
sofa  just  like  an  Inman  liner. 

"Have  you  ever  considered,"  said  she,  "the 
enormous  moral  responsibility  that  rests  in  the 
hands  of  one  who  has  the  gift  of  literary  ex- 
pression? In  my  own  case — but  you  surely 
know  my  collaborator." 

A  much  huger  woman  arrived,  cast  anchor, 
and  docked  herself  on  the  other  side  of  the 
sofa.  She  was  the  collaborator.  Together 
they  confided  to  me  that  they  were  desperately 
in  earnest  about  the  amelioration  of  something 
or  other.  Their  collective  grievance  against 
me  was  that  I  was  not  in  earnest. 

"We  have  studied  your  works — all,"  said  the 
[  275  ] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


five-thousand-ton  four-master,  "and  we  can- 
not believe  that  you  are  in  earnest."  "Oh,  no," 
I  said  hastily,  "I  never  was."  Then  I  saw  that 
that  was  the  wrong  thing  to  say,  for  the  eight- 
thousand-ton  palace  Cunarder  signalled  to  the 
sister  ship,  saying:  "You  see,  my  estimate 
was  correct." 

"Now,  my  complaint  against  him  is  that  he 
is  too  savagely  farouche,33  said  a  weedy  young 
gentleman  with  tow  hair,  who  ate  Sally  Lunns 
like  a  workhouse  orphan.  "Faroucherie  in  his 
age  is  a  fatal  mistake." 

I  reflected  a  moment  on  the  possibility  of 
getting  that  young  gentleman  out  into  a  large 
and  dusty  maidan  and  gently  chukkering  him 
before  cJwta  hazri.  Pie  looked  too  sleek  to  me 
as  he  then  stood.  But  I  said  nothing,  because 
a  tiny-tiny  woman  with  beady-black  eyes 
shrilled:  "I  disagree  with  you  entirely.  He 
is  too  much  bound  by  the  tradition  of  the 
commonplace.  I  have  seen  in  his  later  work 
signs  that  he  is  afraid  of  his  public.  You  must 
never  be  afraid  of  your  public." 

Then  they  began  to  discuss  me  as  though  I 
[  276  ] 


ON  EXHIBITION 

were  dead  and  buried  under  the  hearth-rug, 
and  they  talked  of  "tones"  and  "notes"  and 
"lights"  and  "shades"  and  tendencies. 

"And  which  of  us  do  you  think  is  correct 
in  her  estimate  of  your  character?"  said  the 
tiny-tiny  woman  when  they  had  made  me  out 
(a)  a  giddy  Lothario ;  (b)  a  savage;  (c)  a  pre- 
Rafaelite  angel;  (d)  co-equal  and  co-etemal 
with  half  a  dozen  gentlemen  whose  names  I 
had  never  heard ;  (e)  flippant;  (f)  penetrated 
with  pathos;  (g)  an  open  atheist ;  (h)  a  young 
man  of  the  Roman  Catholic  faith  with  a 
mission  in  life. 

I  smiled  idiotically,  and  said  I  really  didn't 
know. 

Then  a  man  entered  whom  I  knew,  and  I 
fled  to  him  for  comfort.  "Have  I  missed  the 
fun?"  he  asked  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

I  explained,  snorting,  what  had  befallen. 

"Ay,"  said  he  quietly,  "you  didn't  go  the 
right  way  to  work.  You  should  have  stood 
on  the  hearth-rug  and  fired  off  epigrams. 
That's  what  I  did  after  I  had  written  Down 
[  277] 


ON  EXHIBITION 


sucking  a  stick,  and  I  felt  sure  that  the  maiden 
would  much  have  preferred  talking  to  him. 
She  smiled  prefatorily. 

"It's  hot  here."  1  said:  "let's  go  over  to  the 
window":  and  I  plumped  down  on  a  three- 
seated  settee,  with  my  back  to  the  young  man. 
leaving  only  one  place  for  the  maiden.  I  was 
right.  I  signalled  up  the  man  who  had  written 
Down  in  thv  Doldrums,  and  talked  to  him  as 
fast  as  I  knew  how.  When  he  had  to  go.  and 
the  young  man  with  him.  the  maiden  became 
enthusiastic,  not  to  say  gushing.  But  I  knew 
that  those  compliments  were  for  value  re- 
ceived. Then  she  explained  that  she  was  going 
out  to  India  to  stay  with  her  married  aunt, 
wherefore  she  became  as  a  sister  unto  me  on 
the  spot.  Her  mamma  did  not  seem  to  know 
much  about  Indian  outtits,  and  I  waxed  elo- 
quent on  the  subject. 

"It's  all  nonsense."  I  said,  "to  rill  your  boxes 
with  things  that  can  be  made  just  as  well  in 
the  country.  What  you  want  are  walking- 
dresses  and  dinner-dresses  as  good  as  ever  you 
can  get,  and  gloves  tinned  up,  and  odds  and 
[«»] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

ends  of  things  generally.  All  the  rest,  unless 
you're  extravagant,  the  dharzee  can  make  in 
the  verandah.  Take  underclothing,  for  in- 
stance." I  was  conscious  that  my  loud  and 
cheerful  voice  was  ploughing  through  one  of 
those  ghostly  silences  that  sometimes  fall  upon 
a  company.  The  English  only  wear  their  out- 
sides  in  company.  They  have  nothing  to  do 
with  underclothing.  I  could  feel  that  without 
being  told.  So  the  silence  cut  short  the  one 
matter  in  which  I  could  really  have  been  of 
use. 

On  the  pavement  my  friend  who  wrote 
Down  in  the  Doldrums  was  waiting  to  walk 
home  with  me.  "What  in  the  world  does  it 
all  mean?"  I  said.  "Nothing,"  said  he. 
"You've  been  asked  there  as  a  small  deputy 
lion  to  roar  in  place  of  a  much  bigger  man. 
You  growled,  though." 

"I  should  have  done  much  worse  if  I'd 
known,"  I  grunted.  "Ah,"  said  he,  "you 
haven't  arrived  at  the  real  fun  of  the  show. 
Wait  till  they've  made  you  jump  through 
hoops  and  your  turn's  over,  and  you  can  sit 
[280] 


ON  EXHIBITION 

on  a  sofa  and  watch  the  new  men  being  brought 
up  and  put  through  their  paces.  You've  noth- 
ing like  that  in  India.  How  do  you  manage 
your  parties?" 

And  I  thought  of  smooth-cut  lawns  in  the 
gloaming,  and  tables  spread  under  mighty 
trees,  and  men  and  women,  all  intimately  ac- 
quainted with  each  other,  strolling  about  in 
the  lightest  of  raiment,  and  the  old  dowagers 
criticising  the  badminton,  and  the  young  men 
in  riding-boots  making  rude  remarks  about  the 
claret  cup,  and  the  host  circulating  through  the 
mob  and  saying:  "Hah,  Piggy,"  or  Bobby  or 
Flatnose,  as  the  nickname  might  be,  "have  an- 
other peg,"  and  the  hostess  soothing  the  bash- 
ful youngsters  and  talking  hhitmatgars  with 
the  Judge's  wife,  and  the  last  new  bride  hang- 
ing on  her  husband's  arm  and  saying:  "Isn't 
it  almost  time  to  go  home,  Dicky,  dear?"  and 
the  little  fat  owls  chuckling  in  the  bougain- 
villeas,  and  the  horses  stamping  and  squealing 
in  the  carriage-drive,  and  everybody  saying 
the  most  awful  things  about  everybody  else, 
but  prepared  to  do  anything  for  anybody  else 
[  281  ] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


just  the  same;  and  I  gulped  a  great  gulp  of 
sorrow  and  homesickness. 

"You  wouldn't  understand,"  said  I  to  my 
friend.  "Let's  go  to  a  pot-house,  where  cab- 
bies call,  and  drink  something." 


[282] 


THE  THREE  YOUNG  MEN* 


LONDON  IN  THE  FOG 


URIOUSER  and  curiouser,"  as 
Alice  in  Wonderland  said  when 
she  found  her  neck  beginning  to 
grow.  Each  day  under  the  smoke 


brings  me  new  and  generally  unpleasant  dis- 
coveries. The  latest  are  most  on  my  mind.  I 
hasten  to  transfer  them  to  yours. 

At  first,  and  several  times  afterwards,  I  very 
greatly  desired  to  talk  to  a  thirteen-two  subal- 
tern— not  because  he  or  I  would  have  anything 
valuable  to  say  to  each  other,  but  just  because 
he  was  a  subaltern.  I  wanted  to  know  all 
about  that  evergreen  polo-pony  that  "can  turn 
on  a  sixpence,"  and  the  second-hand  second 
charger  that,  by  a  series  of  perfectly  unprece- 


♦"Turnovers,"  No.  IX. 

[  283] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

dented  misfortunes,  just  failed  to  win  the  Cal- 
cutta Derby.  Then,  too,  I  wished  to  hear  of 
many  old  friends  across  the  sea,  and  who  had 
got  his  company,  and  why  and  where  the  new 
Generals  were  going  next  cold  weather,  and 
how  the  Commander-in-Chief  had  been  enliv- 
ening the  Simla  season.  So  I  looked  east  and 
west,  and  north  and  south,  but  never  a  thirteen- 
two  subaltern  broke  through  the  fog;  except 
once — and  he  had  grown  a  fifteen-one  cot 
down,  and  wore  a  tall  hat  and  frock  coat,  and 
was  begging  for  coppers  from  the  Horse- 
Guards.  By  the  way,  if  you  stand  long  enough 
between  the  mounted  sentries — the  men  who 
look  like  reflectors  stolen  from  Christmas  trees 
— you  will  presently  meet  every  human  being 
you  ever  knew  in  India.  When  I  am  not 
happy — that  is  to  say,  once  a  day — I  run  off 
and  play  on  the  pavement  in  front  of  the 
Horse-Guards,  and  watch  the  expressions  on 
the  gentlemen's  faces  as  they  come  out.  But 
this  is  a  digression. 

After  some  days — I  grew  lonelier  and  lone- 
lier every  hour — I  went  away  to  the  other  end 
[28*]  ' 


THE  THREE  YOUNG  MEN 

of  the  town,  and  catching  a  friend,  said: 
"Lend  me  a  man — a  young  man — to  play  with. 
I  don't  feel  happy.  I  want  rousing.  I  have 
liver."  And  the  friend  said:  "Ah,  yes,  of 
course.  What  you  want  is  congenial  society, 
something  that  will  stir  you  up — a  fellow- 
mind.  Now  let  me  introduce  you  to  a  thor- 
oughly nice  young  man.  He's  by  way  of  be- 
ing an  ardent  Neo- Alexandrine,  and  has 
written  some  charming  papers  on  the  'Ethics 
of  the  Wood  Pavement.' "  Concealing  my 
almost  visible  rapture,  I  murmured  "Oh, 
bliss!"  as  they  used  to  say  at  the  Gaiety,  and 
extended  the  hand  of  friendship  to  a  young 
gentleman  attired  after  the  fashion  of  the 
Neo-Alexandrines,  who  appear  to  be  a  sub- 
caste  of  social  priests.  His  hand  was  a  limp 
hand,  his  face  was  very  smooth  because  he  had 
not  yet  had  time  to  grow  any  hair,  and  he  wore 
a  cloak  like  a  policeman's  cloak,  but  much  more 
so.  On  his  finger  was  a  cameo-ring  about  three 
inches  wide,  and  round  his  neck,  the  weather 
being  warm,  was  a  fawn,  olive  and  dead-leaf 
comforter  of  soft  silk — the  sort  of  thing  any 
[285] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


right-minded  man  would  give  to  his  mother 
or  his  sister  without  being  asked. 

We  looked  at  each  other  cautiously  for  some 
minutes.  Then  he  said:  "What  do  you  think 
of  the  result  of  the  Brighton  election?"  "Beau- 
tiful, beautiful,"  I  said,  watching  his  eye,  which 
saddened.  "One  of  the  worst — that  is,  entirely 
the  most  absurd  reductio  ad  absurdum  of  the 
principle  of  the  narrow  and  narrow-minded 
majority  imposing  a  will  which  is  necessarily 
incult  on  a  minority  animated  by  ..."  I  for- 
get exactly  what  he  said  they  were  animated 
by,  but  it  was  something  veiy  fine. 

"When  I  was  at  Oxford,"  he  said,  "Haward 
of  Exeter" — he  spoke  as  one  speaks  of  Smith 

of  Asia — "always  inculcated  at  the  Union  

By  the  way,  you  do  not  know,  I  suppose,  any- 
thing of  the  life  at  Oxford?"  "No,"  I  said, 
anxious  to  propitiate,  "but  I  remember  some 
boys  once  who  seduced  an  ekka  and  a  pony  into 
a  Major's  tent  at  a  camp  of  exercise,  laced  up 
the  door,  and  let  the  Major  fight  it  out  with 
the  horse."  I  told  that  little  incident  in  my 
best  style,  and  was  three  parts  through  it 
[286] 


THE  THREE  YOUNG  MEN 

before  I  discovered  that  he  was  looking  pained 
and  shocked. 

"That — ah — was  not  the  side  of  Oxford  that 
I  had  in  mind  when  I  was  saying  that  Ha- 

ward  of  Exeter  "    And  he  explained  all 

about  Mr.  Haward,  who  appeared  to  be  a 
young  gentleman,  rising  twenty-three,  of  won- 
derful mental  attainments,  and  as  pernicious  a 
prig  as  I  ever  dreamed  about.  Mr.  Haward  had 
schemes  for  the  better  management  of  creation; 
my  friend  told  me  them  all — social,  political 
and  economical. 

Then,  just  as  I  was  feeling  faint  and  very 
much  in  need  of  a  drink,  he  launched  without 
warning  upon  the  boundless  seas  of  literature. 
He  wished  to  know  whether  I  had  read  the 
works  of  Messrs.  Guy  de  Maupassant,  Paul 
Bourget  and  Pierre  Loti.  This  in  the  tone  of 
a  teacher  of  Euclid.  I  replied  that  all  my 
French  was  confined  to  the  Vie  Parisienne  and 
translations  of  Zola's  novels  with  illustrations. 
Here  we  parted.  London  is  very  large,  and  I 
do  not  think  we  shall  meet  any  more. 

I  thanked  our  Mutual  Friend  for  his  kind- 
[287] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

ness,  and  asked  for  another  young  man  to  play 
with.  This  gentleman  was  even  younger  than 
the  last,  but  quite  as  cocksure.  He  told  me 
in  the  course  of  half  a  cigar  that  only  men  of 
mediocre  calibre  went  into  the  army,  which  was 
a  brutalising  profession;  that  he  suffered  from 
nerves,  and  "an  uncontrollable  desire  to  walk 
up  and  down  the  room  and  sob"  (that  was  too 
many  cigarettes),  and  that  he  had  never  set 
foot  out  of  England,  but  knew  all  about  the 
world  from  his  own  theories.  Thought  Dick- 
ens coarse;  Scott  jingling  and  meretricious; 
and  had  not  by  any  chance  read  the  novels  of 
Messrs.  Guy  de  Maupassant,  Paul  Bourget 
and  Pierre  Loti. 

Him  I  left  quickly,  but  sorry  that  he  could 
not  do  a  six  weeks'  training  with  a  Middlesex 
militia  regiment,  where  he  would  really  get 
something  to  sob  for.  The  novel  business  in- 
terested me.  I  perceived  that  it  was  a  fashion, 
like  his  tie  and  his  collars,  and  I  wanted  to 
work  it  to  the  fountain-head.  To  this  end  I 
procured  the  whole  Shibboleth  from  Guy  de 
Maupassant  even  unto  Pierre  Loti  by  way  of 
[288] 


THE  THREE  YOUNG  MEN 

Bourget.  Unwholesome  was  a  mild  term  for 
these  interesting  books,  which  the  young  men 
assured  me  that  they  read  for  style.  When  a 
fat  Major  makes  that  remark  in  an  Indian 
Club,  everybody  hoots  and  laughs.  But  you 
must  not  laugh  overseas,  especially  at  young 
gentlemen  who  have  been  to  Oxford  and  lis- 
tened to  Mr.  Haward  of  Exeter. 

Then  I  was  introduced  to  another  young 
man  who  said  he  belonged  to  a  movement  called 
Toynbee  Hall,  where,  I  gathered,  young  gen- 
tlemen took  an  indecent  interest  in  the  affairs 
of  another  caste,  whom,  with  rare  tact,  they 
called  "the  poor,"  and  told  them  generally 
how  to  order  their  lives.  Such  was  the  manner 
and  general  aggressiveness  of  this  third  young 
gentleman,  that  if  he  had  told  me  that  coats 
were  generally  worn  and  good  for  the  protec- 
tion of  the  body,  I  should  have  paraded  Bond 
Street  in  my  shirt.  What  the  poor  thought  of 
him  I  could  not  tell,  but  there  is  no  room  for 
it  in  this  letter.  He  said  that  there  was  going 
to  be  an  upheaval  of  the  classes — the  English 
are  very  funny  about  their  castes.  They  don't 
[289] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

know  how  to  handle  them  one  little  bit,  and 
never  allow  them  to  draw  water  or  build  huts 
in  peace — and  the  entire  social  fabric  was  about 
to  be  remodelled  on  his  recommendations,  and 
the  world  would  be  generally  altered  past 
recognition.  No,  he  had  never  seen  anything 
of  the  world,  but  close  acquaintance  with  au- 
thorities had  enabled  him  to  form  dispassion- 
ate judgments  on  the  subjects,  and  had  I,  by 
any  chance,  read  the  novels  of  Guy  de  Mau- 
passant, Pierre  Loti  and  Paul  Bourget? 

It  was  a  mean  thing  to  do,  but  I  couldn't 
help  it.  I  had  read  'em.  I  put  him  on,  so  to 
speak,  far  back  in  Paul  Bourget,  who  is  a 
genial  sort  of  writer.  I  pinned  him  to  one 
book.  He  could  not  escape  from  Paul 
Bourget.  He  was  fed  with  it  till  he  confessed 
— and  he  had  been  quite  ready  to  point  out  its 
beauties — that  we  could  not  take  much  inter- 
est in  the  theories  put  forward  in  that  particu- 
lar book.  Then  I  said :  "Get  a  dictionary  and 
read  him,"  which  severed  our  budding  friend- 
ship. 

Thereafter  I  sought  our  Mutual  Friend  and 
[  290] 


THE  THREE  YOUNG  MEN 


walked  up  and  down  his  room  sobbing,  or 
words  to  that  effect.  "Good  gracious!"  said 
my  friend.  "Is  that  what's  troubling  you? 
Now,  I  hold  the  ravaging  rights  over  half  a 
dozen  fields  and  a  bit  of  a  wood.  You  can 
pot  rabbits  there  in  the  evenings  sometimes, 
and  anyway  you  get  exercise.    Come  along." 

So  I  went.  I  have  not  yet  killed  anything, 
but  it  seems  wasteful  to  drive  good  powder 
and  shot  after  poor  little  bunnies  when  there 
are  so  many  other  things  in  the  world  that 
would  be  better  for  an  ounce  and  a  half  of 
number  five  at  sixty  yards — not  enough  to 
disable,  but  just  sufficient  to  sting,  and  be 
pricked  out  with  a  penknife. 

I  should  like  to  wield  that  penknife. 


[291] 


MY  GREAT  AND  ONLY* 


HETHER  Macdougal  or  Mac- 
doodle  be  his  name,  the  principle 
remains  the  same,  as  Mrs.  Nickle- 
by  said.     The  gentleman  ap- 


peared to  hold  authority  in  London,  and  by 
virtue  of  his  position  preached  or  ordained  that 
music-halls  were  vulgar,  if  not  improper.  Sub- 
sequently, I  gathered  that  the  gentleman  was 
inciting  his  associates  to  shut  up  certain  music- 
halls  on  the  ground  of  the  vulgarity  afore- 
said,  and  I  saw  with  my  own  eyes  that  unhappy 
little  managers  were  putting  notices  into  the 
corners  of  their  programmes  begging  the  audi- 
ence to  report  each  and  every  impropriety. 
That  was  pitiful,  but  it  excited  my  interest. 

Now,  to  the  upright  and  impartial  mind — 
which  is  mine — all  the  diversions  of  Heathen- 


"Turnovers,"  No.  IX. 

[  292  ] 


MY  GREAT  AND  ONLY 

dom — which  is  the  British — are  of  equal  eth- 
nological value.  And  it  is  true  that  some 
human  beings  can  be  more  vulgar  in  the  act 
of  discussing  etchings,  editions  of  luxury,  or 
their  own  emotions,  than  other  human  beings 
employed  in  swearing  at  each  other  across  the 
street.  Therefore,  following  a  chain  of  thought 
which  does  not  matter,  I  visited  very  many 
theatres  whose  licenses  had  never  been  inter- 
fered with.  There  I  discovered  men  and 
women  who  lived  and  moved  and  behaved  ac- 
cording to  rules  which  in  no  sort  regulate 
human  life,  by  tradition  dead  and  done  with, 
and  after  the  customs  of  the  more  immoral 
ancients  and  Barnum.  At  one  place  the 
lodging-house  servant  was  an  angel,  and  her 
mother  a  Madonna;  at  a  second  they  sounded 
the  loud  timbrel  o'er  a  whirl  of  bloody  axes, 
mobs,  and  brown-paper  castles,  and  said  it  was 
not  a  pantomime,  but  Art;  at  a  third  every- 
body grew  fabulously  rich  and  fabulously  poor 
every  twenty  minutes,  which  was  confusing; 
at  a  fourth  they  discussed  the  Nudities  and 
Lewdities  in  false-palate  voices  supposed  to 
[293] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

belong  to  the  aristocracy  and  that  tasted  copper 
in  the  mouth;  at  a  fifth  they  merely  climbed 
up  walls  and  threw  furniture  at  each  other, 
which  is  notoriously  the  custom  of  spinsters  and 
small  parsons.  Next  morning  the  papers 
would  write  about  the  progress  of  the  modern 
drama  (that  was  the  silver  paper  pantomime) , 
and  "graphic  presentment  of  the  realities  of 
our  highly  complex  civilisation."  That  was  the 
angel  housemaid.  By  the  way,  when  an  Eng- 
lishman has  been  doing  anything  more  than 
unusually  Pagan,  he  generally  consoles  him- 
self with  "over-civilisation."  It's  the  "martyr- 
to-nerves-dear"  note  in  his  equipment. 

I  went  to  the  music-halls — the  less  fre- 
quented ones — and  they  were  almost  as  dull 
as  the  plays,  but  they  introduced  me  to  several 
elementary  truths.  Ladies  and  gentlemen  in 
eccentric,  but  not  altogether  unsightly,  cos- 
tumes told  me  (a)  that  if  I  got  drunk  I  should 
have  a  head  next  morning,  and  perhaps  be  fined 
by  the  magistrate;  (b)  that  if  I  flirted  pro- 
miscuously I  should  probably  get  into  trouble ; 
(c)  that  I  had  better  tell  my  wife  everything 
[  294  ] 


MY  GREAT  AND  ONLY 

and  be  good  to  her,  or  she  would  be  sure  to 
find  out  for  herself  and  be  very  bad  to  me;  (d) 
that  I  should  never  lend  money;  or  (e)  fight 
with  a  stranger  whose  form  I  did  not  know. 
My  friends  (if  I  may  be  permitted  to  so  call 
them)  illustrated  these  facts  with  personal 
reminiscences  and  drove  them  home  with  kicks 
and  prancings.  At  intervals  circular  ladies  in 
pale  pink  and  white  would  low  to  their  audi- 
ence to  the  effect  that  there  was  nothing  half 
so  sweet  in  life  as  "Love's  Young  Dream,"  and 
the  billycock  hats  would  look  at  the  four-and- 
elevenpenny  bonnets,  and  they  saw  that  it  was 
good  and  clasped  hands  on  the  strength  of 
it.  Then  other  ladies  with  shorter  skirts  would 
explain  that  when  their  husbands 

"Stagger  home  tight  about  two, 
An'  can't  light  the  candle, 
We  taik  the  broom  'andle 
An'  show  'em  what  women  can  do." 

Naturally,  the  billycocks,  seeing  what  might 
befall,  thought  things  over  again,  and  you 
heard  the  bonnets  murmuring  softly  under  the 
[295  ] 


ABAFT  THE  FUXXEL 

clink  of  the  lager-glasses:  "Xot  me,  Bill.  Xot 
meT  Xow  these  things  are  basic  and  basaltic 
truths.  Anybody  can  understand  them.  They 
are  as  old  as  Time.  Perhaps  the  expression  was 
occasionally  what  might  be  called  coarse,  but 
beer  is  beer,  and  best  in  a  pewter,  though  you 
can,  if  you  please,  drink  it  from  Venetian  glass 
and  call  it  something  else.  The  halls  give 
wisdom  and  not  too  lively  entertainment  for 
sixpence — ticket  good  for  four  pen'orth  of  re- 
freshments, chiefly  inky  porter — and  the  people 
who  listen  are  respectable  folk  living  under 
very  grey  skies  who  derive  all  the  light  side  of 
their  life,  the  food  for  their  imagination  and  the 
crystallised  expression  of  their  views  on  Fate 
and  Xemesis,  from  the  affable  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen singers.  They  require  a  few  green  and 
gold  maidens  in  short  skirts  to  kick  before 
them.  Herein  they  are  no  better  and  no  worse 
than  folk  who  require  fifty  girls  very  much 
undressed,  and  a  setting  of  music,  or  pictures 
that  won't  let  themselves  be  seen  on  account 
of  their  age  and  varnish,  or  statues  and  coins. 
All  animals  like  salt,  but  some  prefer  rock- 
[  296  ] 


MY  GREAT  AND  ONLY 

salt,  red  or  black  in  lumps.  But  this  is  a 
digression. 

Out  of  my  many  visits  to  the  hall — I  chose 
one  hall,  you  understand,  and  frequented  it  till 
I  could  tell  the  mood  it  was  in  before  I  had 
passed  the  ticket-poll — was  born  the  Great 
Idea.  I  served  it  as  a  slave  for  seven  days. 
Thought  was  not  sufficient;  experience  was 
necessary.  I  patrolled  Westminster,  Black- 
friars,  Lambeth,  the  Old  Kent  Road,  and 
many,  many  more  miles  of  pitiless  pavement 
to  make  sure  of  my  subject.  At  even  I  drank 
my  lager  among  the  billycocks,  and  lost  my 
heart  to  a  bonnet.  Goethe  and  Shakespeare 
were  my  precedents.  I  sympathised  with  them 
acutely,  but  I  got  my  Message.  A  chance- 
caught  refrain  of  a  song  which  I  understand 
is  protected — to  its  maker  I  convey  my  most 
grateful  acknowledgments — gave  me  what  I 
sought.  The  rest  was  made  up  of  four  elemen- 
tary truths,  some  humour,  and,  though  I  say 
it  who  should  leave  it  to  the  press,  pathos  deep 
and  genuine.  I  spent  a  penny  on  a  paper 
which  introduced  me  to  a  Great  and  Only  who 
[297] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

"wanted  new  songs."  The  people  desired  them 
really.  He  was  their  ambassador,  and  taught 
me  a  great  deal  about  the  property-right  in 
songs,  concluding  with  a  practical  illustration, 
for  he  said  my  verses  were  just  the  thing  and 
annexed  them.  It  was  long  before  he  could  hit 
on  the  step-dance  which  exactly  elucidated  the 
spirit  of  the  text,  and  longer  before  he  could 
jingle  a  pair  of  huge  brass  spurs  as  a  dancing- 
girl  jingles  her  anklets.  That  was  my  notion, 
and  a  good  one. 

The  Great  and  Only  possessed  a  voice  like 
a  bull,  and  nightly  roared  to  the  people  at  the 
heels  of  one  who  was  winning  triple  encores 
with  a  priceless  ballad  beginning  deep  down 
in  the  bass:  "We  was  shopmates — boozin' 
shopmates."  I  feared  that  song  as  Rachel 
feared  Ristori.  A  greater  than  I  had  written 
it.  It  was  a  grim  tragedy,  lighted  with  lucid 
humour,  wedded  to  music  that  maddened.  But 
my  "Great  and  Only"  had  faith  in  me,  and  I 
— I  clung  to  the  Great  Heart  of  the  People — 
my  people — four  hundred  "when  it's  all  full, 
sir."  I  had  not  studied  them  for  nothing.  I 
[298  ] 


MY  GREAT  AND  ONLY 

must  reserve  the  description  of  my  triumph  for 
another  "Turnover." 

There  was  no  portent  in  the  sky  on  the  night 
of  my  triumph.  A  barrowful  of  onions,  indeed, 
upset  itself  at  the  door,  but  that  was  a  coinci- 
dence. The  hall  was  crammed  with  billycocks 
waiting  for  "We  was  shopmates."  The  great 
heart  beat  healthily.  I  went  to  my  beer  the 
equal  of  Shakespeare  and  Moliere  at  the  wings 
in  a  first  night.  What  would  my  public  say? 
Could  anything  live  after  the  abandon  of  "We 
was  shopmates"  ?  What  if  the  redcoats  did  not 
muster  in  their  usual  strength.  O  my  friends, 
never  in  your  songs  and  dramas  forget  the  red- 
coat.  He  has  sympathy  and  enormous  boots. 

I  believed  in  the  redcoat;  in  the  great  heart 
of  the  people :  above  all  in  myself.  The  con- 
ductor, who  advertised  that  he  "doctored  bad 
songs,"  had  devised  a  pleasant  little  lilting  air 
for  my  needs,  but  it  struck  me  as  weak  and 
thin  after  the  thunderous  surge  of  the  "Shop- 
mates."  I  glanced  at  the  gallery — the  red- 
coats were  there.  The  fiddle-bows  creaked, 
and,  with  a  jingle  of  brazen  spurs,  a  forage- 
[299] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


cap  over  his  left  eye,  my  Great  and  Only  began 
to  "chuck  it  off  his  chest."   Thus : 

'"'At  the  back  o'  the  Knightsbridge  Barricks, 
When  the  fog  was  a-gatherin'  dim, 
The  Lifeguard  talked  to  the  L'ndercook, 
An'  the  girl  she  talked  to  'im." 

"Tuciddle  -  iddle  -  iddle-lum-tum-tum!"  said 
the  violins. 

"Ling  -  a-lin g-a-Un g-a-lin g-tin g-lin g  f  said 
Hie  spurs  of  the  Great  and  Only,  and  through 
the  roar  in  my  ears  I  fancied  I  could  catch  a 
responsive  hoof-beat  in  the  gallery.  The  next 
four  lines  held  the  house  to  attention.  Then 
came  the  chorus  and  the  borrowed  refrain.  It 
took — it  went  home  with  a  crisp  click.  My 
Great  and  Only  saw  his  chance.  Superbly 
waving  his  hand  to  embrace  the  whole  audience, 
he  invited  them  to  join  him  in: 

"You  may  make  a  mistake  when  you're  mash- 
ing a  tart, 
But  you'll  learn  to  be  wise  when  you're 
older, 

[300] 


MY  GREAT  AND  ONLY 

And  don't  try  for  things  that  are  out  of  your 
reach, 

And  that's  what  the  girl  told  the  soldier, 
soldier,  soldier, 
And  that's  what  the  girl  told  the  soldier." 

I  thought  the  gallery  would  never  let  go  of 
the  long-drawn  howl  on  "soldier."  They  clung 
to  it  as  ringers  to  the  kicking  bell-rope.  Then 
I  envied  no  one — not  even  Shakespeare.  I  had 
my  house  hooked — gaffed  under  the  gills, 
netted,  speared,  shot  behind  the  shoulder — 
anything  you  please.  That  was  pure  joy! 
With  each  verse  the  chorus  grew  louder,  and 
when  my  Great  and  Only  had  bellowed  his 
way  to  the  fall  of  the  Lifeguard  and  the 
happy  lot  of  the  Undercook,  the  gallery  rocked 
again,  the  reserved  stalls  shouted,  and  the 
pewters  twinkled  like  the  legs  of  the  demented 
ballet-girls.  The  conductor  waved  the  now 
frenzied  orchestra  to  softer  Lydian  strains. 
My  Great  and  Only  warbled  piano: 

"At  the  back  o'  Knightsbridge  Barricks, 
When  the  fog's  a-gatherin'  dim, 
The  Lifeguard  waits  for  the  LTndercook, 
But  she  won't  wait  for  'im." 

[301] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


"Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rah!"  rang  a  horn 
clear  and  fresh  as  a  sword-cut.  'Twas  the 
apotheosis  of  virtue. 

"She's  married  a  man  in  the  poultry  line 

That  lives  at  'Ighgate  '111, 
An'  the  Lifeguard  walks  with  the  'ousemaid 
now, 

An'  (awful  pause)  she  can't  foot  the  bill!" 

Who  shall  tell  the  springs  that  move  masses? 
I  had  builded  better  than  I  knew.  Followed 
yells,  shrieks  and  wildest  applause.  Then,  as 
a  wave  gathers  to  the  curl-over,  singer  and 
sung  to  fill  their  chests  and  heave  the  chorus 
through  the  quivering  roof — alto,  horns, 
basses  drowned,  and  lost  in  the  flood — to  the 
beach-like  boom  of  beating  feet: 

"Oh,  think  o'  my  song  when  you're  gowin'  it 
strong 

An'  your  boots  is  too  little  to  'old  yer; 
An'  don't  try  for  things  that  is  out  of  your 
reach, 

An'  that's  what  the  girl  told  the  soldier, 
soldier,  so-holdier!" 

[302] 


MY  GREAT  AND  ONLY 

Ow!  Hi!  Yi!  Wha-hup!  Phew!  Whew! 
Pwhit!  Bang!  Wang!  Crr-rash!  There  was 
ample  time  for  variations  as  the  horns  uplifted 
themselves  and  ere  the  held  voices  came  down 
in  the  foam  of  sound — 

"That's  what  the  girl  told  the  soldier/' 

Providence  has  sent  me  several  joys,  and  I 
have  helped  myself  to  others,  but  that  night, 
as  I  looked  across  the  sea  of  tossing  billycocks 
and  rocking  bonnets,  my  work,  as  I  heard  them 
give  tongue,  not  once,  but  four  times — their 
eyes  sparkling,  their  mouths  twisted  with  the 
taste  of  pleasure — I  felt  that  I  had  secured 
Perfect  Felicity.  I  am  become  greater  than 
Shakespeare.  I  may  even  write  plays  for  the 
Lyceum,  but  I  never  can  recapture  that  first 
fine  rapture  that  followed  the  Upheaval  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  four  hundred  of  him  and  her. 
They  do  not  call  for  authors  on  these  occa- 
sions, but  I  desired  no  need  of  public  recogni- 
tion. I  was  placidly  happy.  The  chorus  bub- 
bled up  again  and  again  throughout  the 
[303] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


evening,  and  a  redcoat  in  the  gallery  insisted 
on  singing  solos  about  "a  swine  in  the  poultry- 
line,"  whereas  I  had  written  "man,"  and  the 
pewters  began  to  fly,  and  afterwards  the  long 
streets  were  vocal  with  various  versions  of 
what  the  girl  had  really  told  the  soldier,  and 
I  went  to  bed  murmuring :  4 'I  have  found  my 
destiny." 

But  it  needs  a  more  mighty  intellect  to  write 
the  Songs  of  the  People.  Some  day  a  man  will 
rise  up  from  Bermondsey,  Battersea  or  Bow, 
and  he  will  be  coarse,  but  clearsighted,  hard 
but  infinitely  and  tenderly  humorous,  speaking 
the  people's  tongue,  steeped  in  their  lives  and 
telling  them  in  swinging,  urging,  dinging  verse 
what  it  is  that  their  inarticulate  lips  would 
express.  He  will  make  them  songs.  Such 
songs!  And  all  the  little  poets  who  pretend 
to  sing  to  the  people  will  scuttle  away  like 
rabbits,  for  the  girl  (which,  as  you  have  seen, 
of  course,  is  wisdom)  will  tell  that  soldier 
(which  is  Hercules  bowed  under  his  labours) 
all  that  she  knows  of  Life  and  Death  and  Love. 

And  the  same,  they  say,  is  a  Vulgarity! 
[304] 


"THE  BETRAYAL  OF  CONFI- 
DENCES"* 


HAT  was  its  real  name,  and  its  nature 


was  like  unto  it;  but  what  else  could 


I  do?  You  must  judge  for  me. 
They  brought  a  card — the  house- 


maid with  the  fan-teeth  held  it  gingerly  be- 
tween black  finger  and  blacker  thumb — and  it 
carried  the  name  Mr.  R.  H.  Hoffer  in  old 
Gothic  letters.  A  hasty  rush  through  the 
file  of  bills  showed  me  that  I  owed  nothing  to 
any  Mr.  Hoffer,  and  assuming  my  sweetest 
smile,  I  bade  Fan  of  the  Teeth  show  him  up. 
Enter  stumblingly  an  entirely  canary-coloured 
young  person  about  twenty  years  of  age, 
with  a  suspicious  bulge  in  the  bosom  of  his 
coat.  He  had  grown  no  hair  on  his  face;  his 
eyes  were  of  a  delicate  water-green,  and  his 

•"Turnovers,"  No.  IX. 


[  305  ] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

hat  was  a  brown  billycock,  which  he  fingered 
nervously.  As  the  room  was  blue  with  tobacco- 
smoke  (and  Latakia  at  that)  he  coughed  even 
more  nervously,  and  began  seeking  for  me.  I 
hid  behind  the  writing-table  and  took  notes. 
What  I  most  noted  was  the  bulge  in  his  bosom. 
When  a  man  begins  to  bulge  as  to  that  portion 
of  his  anatomy,  hit  him  in  the  eye,  for  reasons 
which  will  be  apparent  later  on. 

He  saw  me  and  advanced  timidly.  I  invited 
him  seductively  to  the  only  other  chair,  and 
"What's  the  trouble?"  said  I. 

"I  wanted  to  see  you,"  said  he. 

"I  am  me,"  said  I. 

"I — I — I  thought  you  would  be  quite  other- 
wise," said  he. 

"I  am,  on  the  contrary,  completely  this 
way,"  said  I.  "Sit  still,  take  your  time  and 
tell  me  all  about  it." 

He  wriggled  tremulously  for  three  minutes, 
and  coughed  again.  I  surveyed  him,  and 
waited  developments.  The  bulge  under  the 
bosom  crackled.  Then  I  frowned.  At  the  end 
of  three  minutes  he  began. 

[306] 


"BETRAYAL  OF  CONFIDENCES" 


"I  wanted  to  see  what  you  were  like,"  said 
he. 

I  inclined  my  head  stiffly,  as  though  all  Lon- 
don habitually  climbed  the  storeys  on  the  same 
errand  and  rather  wearied  me. 

Then  he  delivered  himself  of  a  speech  which 
he  had  evidently  got  by  heart.  He  flushed 
painfully  in  the  delivery. 

"I  am  flattered,"  I  said  at  the  conclusion. 
"It's  beastly  gratifying.  What  do  you  want?" 

"Advice,  if  you  will  be  so  good,"  said  the 
young  man. 

"Then  you  had  better  go  somewhere  else," 
said  I. 

The  young  man  turned  pink.  "But  I 
thought,  after  I  had  read  your  works — all  your 
works,  on  my  word — I  had  hoped  that  you 
would  understand  me,  and  I  really  have  come 
for  advice."  The  bulge  crackled  more  omin- 
ously than  ever. 

"I  understand  perfectly,"  said  I.  "You  are 
oppressed  with  vague  and  nameless  longings, 
are  you  not?" 

"I  am,  terribly,"  said  he. 

[307] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


"You  do  not  wish  to  be  as  other  men  are? 
You  desire  to  emerge  from  the  common  herd, 
to  make  your  mark,  and  so  forth?" 

"Yes,"  said  he  in  an  awestricken  whisper. 
"That  is  my  desire." 

"Also,"  said  I,  "you  love,  excessively,  in 
several  places  at  once  cooks,  housemaids,  gov- 
ernesses, schoolgirls,  and  the  aunts  of  other 
people." 

"But  one  only,"  said  he,  and  the  pink  deep- 
ened to  beetroot. 

"Consequently,"  said  I,  "you  have  written 
much — you  have  written  verses." 

"It  was  to  teach  me  to  write  prose,  only  to 
teach  me  to  write  prose,"  he  murmured.  "You 
do  it  yourself,  because  I  have  bought  your 
works — all  your  works." 

He  spoke  as  if  he  had  purchased  dunghills 
en  bloc. 

"We  will  waive  that  question,"  I  said  loftily. 
"Produce  the  verses." 

"They — they  aren't  exactly  verses,"  said  the 
young  man,  plunging  his  hand  into  his  bosom. 
[308] 


BETRAYAL  OF  CONFIDENCES" 


"I  beg  your  pardon,  I  meant  will  you  be 
good  enough  to  read  your  five-act  tragedy." 

"How — how  in  the  world  did  you  know?" 
said  the  young  man,  more  impressed  than  ever. 

He  unearthed  his  tragedy,  the  title  of  which 
I  have  given,  and  began  to  read.  I  felt  as 
though  I  were  walking  in  a  dream ;  having  been 
till  then  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  earth  held 
young  men  who  held  five-act  tragedies  in  their 
insides.  The  young  man  gave  me  the  whole 
of  the  performance,  from  the  preliminary 
scene,  where  nothing  more  than  an  eruption 
of  Vesuvius  occurs  to  mar  the  serenity  of  the 
manager,  till  the  very  end,  where  the  Roman 
sentry  of  Pompeii  is  slowly  banked  up  with 
ashes  in  the  presence  of  the  audience,  and  dies 
murmuring  through  his  helmet-vizor:  "S.P. 
Q.R.R.I.P.R.S.V.P.,"  or  words  to  that  effect. 

For  three  hours  and  one-half  he  read  to  me. 
And  then  I  made  a  mistake. 

"Sir,"  said  I,  "who's  your  Ma  and  Pa?" 

"I  haven't  got  any,"  said  he,  and  his  lower 
lip  quivered. 

"Where  do  you  live?"  I  said. 

[309] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

"At  the  back  of  Tarporley  Mews,"  said  he. 
"How?"  said  I. 

"On  eleven  shillings  a  week,"  said  he. 

"I  was  pretty  well  educated,  and  if  you  don't 
stay  too  long  they  will  let  you  read  the  books 
in  the  Holywell  Street  stalls." 

"And  you  wasted  your  money  buying  my 
books,"  said  I  with  a  lump  the  size  of  a  bolster 
in  my  throat. 

"I  got  them  second-hand,  four  and  six- 
pence," said  he,  "and  some  I  borrowed." 

Then  I  collapsed.  I  didn't  weep,  but  I  took 
the  tragedy  and  put  it  in  the  fire,  and  called 
myself  every  name  that  I  knew. 

This  caused  the  young  man  to  sob  audibly, 
partly  from  emotion  and  partly  from  lack  of 
food. 

I  took  off  my  hat  to  him  before  I  showed 
him  out,  and  we  went  to  a  restaurant  and  I 
arranged  things  generally  on  a  financial  basis. 

Would  that  I  could  let  the  tale  stop  here. 
But  I  cannot. 

Three  days  later  a  man  came  to  see  me  on 
business,  an  objectionable  man  of  uncompro- 
[310] 


"BETRAYAL  OF  CONFIDENCES" 


mising  truth.  Just  before  he  departed  he  said : 
"D'  you  know  anything  about  the  struggling 
author  of  a  tragedy  called  'The  Betrayal  of 
Confidences'?" 

"Yes,"  said  I.  "One  of  the  few  poor  souls 
who  in  the  teeth  of  grinding  poverty  keep 
alight." 

"At  the  back  of  Tarporley  Mews,"  said  he. 
"On  eleven  shillings  a  week." 

"On  the  mischief!"  said  I. 

"He  didn't  happen  to  tell  you  that  he  con- 
sidered you  the  finest,  subtlest,  truest,  and  so 
forth  of  all  the  living  so  forths,  did  he?" 

"He  may  have  said  something  out  of  the  ful- 
ness of  an  overladen  heart.  You  know  how 
unbridled  is  the  enthusiasm  of  " 

"Young  gentlemen  who  buy  your  books  with 
their  last  farthing.  You  didn't  soak  it  all  in 
by  any  chance,  give  him  a  good  meal  and  half 
a  sovereign  as  well,  did  you?" 

"I  own  up,"  I  said.  "I  did  all  that  and 
more.   But  how  do  you  know?" 

"Because  he  victimised  me  in  the  same  way 
a  fortnight  ago." 

[311] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

"Thank  you  for  that,"  I  said,  "but  I  burned 
his  disgusting  manuscripts.  And  he  wept." 

"There,  unless  he  keeps  a  duplicate,  you 
have  scored  one." 

But  considering  the  matter  impartially,  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  game  is  not  more  than 
"fifteen  all"  in  any  light. 

It  makes  me  blush  to  think  about  it. 


[812] 


THE  NEW  DISPENSATION— I* 


LONDON  IN  A  FOG  NOVEMBER 

THINGS  have  happened — but  that  is 
neither  here  nor  there.  What  I  urg- 
ently require  is  a  servant — a  nice,  fat 
Mussulman  khitmatgar,  who  is  not 
above  doing  bearer's  work  on  occasion.  Such 
a  man  I  would  go  down  to  Southampton  or 
Tilbury  to  meet,  would  usher  tenderly  into  a 
first-class  carriage  (I  always  go  third  myself) , 
and  wrap  in  the  warmest  of  flannel.  He  should 
be  "Jenab"  and  I- would  be  "O  Turn."  When 
he  died,  as  he  assuredly  would  in  this  weather, 
I  would  bury  him  in  my  best  back  garden  and 
write  mortuary  verses  for  publication  in  the 
Koh-i-Nur,  or  whatever  vernacular  paper  he 
might  read.  I  want,  in  short,  a  servant;  and 
this  is  why  I  am  writing  to  you. 

♦"Turnovers,"  Vol.  VIII. 

[813] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

The  English,  who,  by  the  way,  are  unmiti- 
gated barbarians,  maintain  cotton-print  house- 
maids to  do  work  which  is  the  manifest  portion 
of  a  man.  Besides  which,  no  properly  con- 
structed person  cares  to  see  a  white  woman 
waiting  upon  his  needs,  filling  coal-scuttles 
(these  are  very  mysterious  beasts)  and  tidying 
rooms.  The  young  homebred  Englishman  does 
not  object,  and  one  of  the  most  tantalising 
sights  in  the  world  is  that  of  the  young  man  of 
the  house — the  son  newly  introduced  to  shav- 
ing-water and  great  on  the  subject  of  main- 
taining authority — it  is  tantalising,  I  say,  to 
see  this  young  cub  hectoring  a  miserable  little 
slavey  for  not  having  lighted  a  fire  or  put  his 
slippers  in  their  proper  place.  The  next  time 
a  big,  bold  man  from  the  frontier  comes  home 
I  shall  hire  him  to  kick  a  few  young  gentlemen 
of  my  acquaintance  all  round  their  own  draw- 
ing-rooms while  I  lecture  on  my  theory  that 
this  sort  of  thing  accounts  for  the  perceptible 
lack  of  chivalry  in  the  modern  Englishman. 
Now,  if  you  or  I  or  anybody  else  raved  over 
and  lectured  at  Kadir  Baksh,  or  Ram  Singh, 
[314] 


THE  NEW  DISPENSATION— I 

or  Jagesa  on  the  necessity  of  obeying  orders 
and  the  beauty  of  reverencing  our  noble  selves, 
our  men  would  laugh ;  or  if  the  lecture  struck 
them  as  too  long-winded  would  ask  us  if  our 
livers  were  out  of  order  and  recommend  dawai. 
The  housemaid  must  stand  with  her  eyes  on 
the  ground  while  the  young  whelp  sticks  his 
hands  under  the  tail  of  his  dressing-gown  and 
explains  her  duty  to  her.  This  makes  me  ill 
and  sick — sick  for  Kadir  Baksh,  who  rose  from 
the  earth  when  I  called  him,  who  knew  the 
sequence  of  my  papers  and  the  ordering  of  my 
paltry  garments,  and,  I  verily  believed,  loved 
me  not  altogether  for  the  sake  of  lucre.  He 
said  he  would  come  with  me  to  Belait  because, 
"though  the  sahib  says  he  will  never  return  to 
India,  yet  I  know,  and  all  the  other  nauker  log 
know,  that  return  is  his  fate." 

Being  a  fool,  I  left  Kadir  Baksh  behind, 
and  now  I  am  alone  with  housemaids,  who  will 
under  no  circumstances  sleep  on  the  mat  out- 
side the  door.  Even  as  I  write,  one  of  these 
persons  is  cleaning  up  my  room.  Kadir  Baksh 
would  have  done  his  work  without  noise.  She 
[315] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

tramps  and  scuffles;  and,  what  is  much  worse, 
snuffles  horribly.  Kadir  Baksh  would  have 
saluted  me  cheerfully  and  began  some  sort  of 
a  yarn  of  the  "It  hath  reached  me,  O  Auspi- 
cious King!"  order,  and  perhaps  we  should 
have  debated  over  the  worthlessness  of  Dunni, 
the  saiSj  or  the  chances  of  a  little  cold-weather 
expedition,  or  the  wisdom  of  retaining  a  fresh 
chaprassi — some  intimate  friend  of  Kadir 
Baksh.  But  now  I  have  no  horses  and  no 
chaprassiSj  and  this  smutty-faced  girl  glares 
at  me  across  the  room  as  though  she  expected  I 
was  going  to  eat  her. 

She  must  have  a  soul  of  her  own — a  life  of 
her  own — and  perhaps  a  few  amusements.  I 
can't  get  at  these  things.  She  says:  "Ho, 
yuss,"  and  "Ho,  no,"  and  if  I  hadn't  heard 
her  chattering  to  the  lift-boy  on  the  stairs  I 
should  think  that  her  education  stopped  at 
these  two  phrases.  Now,  I  knew  all  about 
Kadir  Baksh,  his  hopes  and  his  savings — his 
experiences  in  the  past,  and  the  health  of  the 
little  ones.  He  was  a  man — a  human  man 
remarkably  like  myself,  and  he  knew  that  as 
[316] 


THE  NEW  DISPENSATION— I 

well  as  I.  A  housemaid  is  of  course  not  a 
man,  but  she  might  at  least  be  a  woman.  My 
wanderings  about  this  amazing  heathen  city 
have  brought  me  into  contact  with  very  many 
English  mem  sahibs  who  seem  to  be  eaten  up 
with  the  fear  of  letting  their  servants  get 
"above  their  position,"  or  "presume,"  or  do 
something  which  would  shake  the  foundations 
of  the  four-mile  cab  radius.  They  seem  to 
carry  on  a  sort  of  cat-and-mouse  war  when  the 
husband  is  at  office  and  they  have  nothing  much 
to  do.  Later,  at  places  where  their  friends 
assemble,  they  recount  the  campaign,  and  the 
other  women  purr  approvingly  and  say :  "You 
did  quite  right,  my  dear.  It  is  evident  that 
she  forgets  her  place." 

All  this  is  edifying  to  the  stranger,  and  gives 
him  a  great  idea  of  the  dignity  that  has  to  be 
bolstered  and  buttressed,  eight  hours  of  the 
twenty-four,  against  the  incendiary  attacks 
of  an  eighteen-pound  including-beer-money 
sleeps-in-a-garret-at-the-top-of-the-house  serv- 
ant-girl. There  is  a  fine-crusted,  slave-holding 
instinct  in  the  hearts  of  a  good  many  deep- 
[317] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

bosomed  matrons — a  "throw  back"  to  the  times 
when  we  trafficked  in  black  ivory.  At  tea-tables 
and  places  where  they  eat  muffins  it  is  called 
dignity.  Now,  your  Kadir  Baksh  or  my  Kadir 
Baksh,  who  is  a  downtrodden  and  oppressed 
heathen  (the  young  gentlemen  who  bullyrag 
white  women  assure  me  that  we  are  in  the 
habit  of  kicking  our  dependents  and  beating 
them  with  umbrellas  daily),  would  ask  for  his 
chits,  and  probably  say  something  sarcastic 
ere  he  drifted  out  of  the  compound  gate,  if  you 
nagged  or  worried  his  noble  self.  He  does  not 
know  much  about  the  meaner  forms  of  dig- 
nity, but  he  is  entirely  sound  on  the  subject  of 
izzat;  and  the  fact  of  his  cracking  an  azure  and 
Oriental  jest  with  you  in  the  privacy  of  your 
dressing-room,  or  seeing  you  at  your  inco- 
herent worst  when  you  have  an  attack  of  fever, 
does  not  in  the  least  affect  his  general  deport- 
ment in  public,  where  he  knows  that  the  hon- 
our of  his  sahib  is  his  own  honour,  and  dons  a 
new  kummerbund  on  the  strength  of  it. 

I  have  tried  to  deal  with  those  housemaids 
in  every  possible  way.    To  sling  a  blunt 
[318] 


THE  NEW  DISPENSATION— I 

"Annie"  or  "Mary"  or  "Jane"  at  a  girl  whose 
only  fault  is  that  she  is  a  heavy-handed  incom- 
petent, strikes  me  as  rather  an  insult,  seeing 
that  the  girl  may  have  a  brother,  and  that  if 
you  had  a  sister  who  was  a  servant  you  would 
object  to  her  being  howled  at  upstairs  and 
downstairs  by  her  given  name.  But  only  ladies' 
maids  are  entitled  to  their  surnames.  They  are 
not  nice  people  as  a  caste,  and  they  regard  the 
housemaids  as  the  chamar  regards  the  mehter. 
Consequently,  I  have  to  call  these  girls  by 
their  Christian  names,  and  cock  my  feet  up  on 
a  chair  when  they  are  cleaning  the  grate,  and 
pass  them  in  the  halls  in  the  morning  as 
though  they  didn't  exist.  Now,  the  morning 
salutation  of  your  Kadir  Baksh  or  my  Kadir 
is  a  performance  which  Turveydrop  might 
envy.  These  persons  don't  understand  a  nod; 
they  think  it  as  bad  as  a  wink,  I  believe.  Re- 
spect and  courtesy  are  lost  upon  them,  and  I 
suppose  I  must  gather  my  dressing-gown  into 
a  tail  and  swear  at  them  in  the  bloodless  voice 
affected  by  the  British  female  who — have  I 
mentioned  this  ? — is  a  highly  composite  heathen 
[319] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

when  she  comes  in  contact  with  her  sister  clay 
downstairs. 

The  softer  methods  lay  one  open  to  harder 
suspicions.  Not  long  ago  there  was  trouble 
among  my  shirts.  I  fancied  buttons  grew  on 
neck-bands.  Kadir  Baksh  and  the  durzie  en- 
couraged me  in  the  belief.  When  the  lead- 
coloured  linen  (they  cannot  wash,  hy  the  way, 
in  this  stronghold  of  infidels)  shed  its  buttons 
1  cast  about  for  a  means  of  renewal.  There 
was  a  housemaid,  and  she  was  not  very  ugly, 
and  I  thought  she  could  sew.  I  knew  I  could 
not.  Therefore  I  strove  to  ingratiate  myself 
with  her,  believing  that  a  little  interest,  com- 
bined with  a  little  capital,  would  fix  those  but- 
tons more  firmly  than  anything  else.  Subse- 
quently, and  after  an  interval — the  buttons 
were  dropping  like  autumn  leaves — I  kissed 
her.  The  buttons  were  attached  at  once.  So, 
unluckily,  was  the  housemaid,  for  I  gathered 
that  she  looked  forward  to  a  lifetime  of  shirt- 
sewing  in  an  official  capacity,  and  my  Revenue 
Board  contemplated  no  additional  establish- 
ment. My  shirts  are  buttonsome,  but  my  char- 
[320] 


THE  NEW  DISPENSATION— I 

acter  is  blasted.  Oh,  I  wish  I  had  Kadir 
Baksh! 

This  is  only  the  first  instalment  of  my 
troubles.  The  heathen  in  these  parts  do  not 
understand  me ;  so  if  you  ill  allow  I  will  come 
to  you  for  sympathy  from  time  to  time.  I 
am  a  child  of  calamity. 


[321] 


THE  NEW  DISPENSATION— II 


KITING   of   Kadir   Baksh  so 


wrought  up  my  feelings  that  I 
could  not  rest  till  I  had  at  least 
made  an  attempt  to  get  a  budii 


of  some  sort.  The  black  man  is  essential  to 
my  comfort.  I  fancied  I  might  in  this  city 
of  barbarism  catch  a  brokendown  native 
strayed  from  his  home  and  friends,  who  would 
be  my  friend  and  humble  pardner — the  sort 
of  man,  y'  know,  who  would  sleep  on  a  rug 
somewhere  near  my  chambers  (I  have  forty 
things  to  tell  you  about  chambers,  but  they 
come  later),  and  generally  look  after  my 
things.  In  the  intervals  of  labour  I  would 
talk  to  him  in  his  own  tongue,  and  we  would 
go  abroad  together  and  explore  London. 
Do  you  know  the  Albert  Docks  ?  The  Brit- 


*"Turnovers,"  Vol.  VIII. 

[  322  ] 


THE  NEW  DISPENSATION— II 

ish-India  steamers  go  thence  to  the  sunshine. 
They  sometimes  leave  a  lascar  or  two  on  the 
wharf,  and,  in  fact,  the  general  tone  of  the 
population  thereabouts  is  brown  and  umber. 
I  was  in  no  case  to  be  particular.  Anything 
dusky  would  do  for  me,  so  long  as  it  could  talk 
Hindustani  and  sew  buttons.  I  went  to  the 
docks  and  walked  about  generally  among  the 
railway  lines  and  packing-cases,  till  I  found 
a  man  selling  tooth-combs,  which  is  not  a  pay- 
ing trade.  He  was  ragged  even  to  furriness, 
and  very  unwashed.  But  he  came  from  the 
East.  "What  are  you?"  I  said,  and  the  look 
of  the  missionary  that  steals  over  me  in  mo- 
ments of  agitation  deluded  that  tooth-comb 
man  into  answering,  "Sar,  I  am  native  ki-li- 
sti-an,"  but  he  put  five  more  syllables  into  the 
last  word. 

There  is  no  Christianity  in  the  docks  worth 
a  tooth-comb.  "I  don't  want  your  beliefs.  I 
want  your  jot"  said  I. 

"I  am  Tamil,"  said  he,  "and  my  name  is 
Ramasawmy." 

It  was  an  awful  thing  to  lower  oneself  to 
[323] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

the  level  of  a  Colonel  of  the  Madras  Army, 
and  come  down  to  being  tended  by  a  Rama- 
sawmy;  but  beggars  cannot  be  choosers.  I 
pointed  out  to  him  that  the  tooth-comb  trade 
was  a  thing  lightly  to  be  dropped  and  taken 
up.  He  might  injure  his  health  by  a  washing, 
but  he  could  not  much  hurt  his  prospects  by 
coming  along  with  me  and  trying  his  hand  at 
bearer's  work.  "Could  he  work?"  Oh,  yes,  he 
didn't  mind  work.  He  had  been  a  servant  in 
his  time.    Several  servants,  in  fact. 

"Could  he  wash  himself?" 

"Ye-es,"  he  might  do  that  if  I  gave  him  a 
coat — a  thick  coat — afterwards,  and  especially 
took  care  of  the  tooth-combs,  for  they  were  his 
little  all. 

"Had  he  any  character  of  any  kind?'" 
He  thought  for  a  minute  and  then  said 
cheerfully:  "Not  a  little  dam."  Thereat  I 
loved  him,  because  a  man  who  can  speak  the 
truth  in  minor  matters  may  be  trusted  with 
important  things,  such  as  shirts. 

We  went  home  together  till  we  struck  a  pub- 
lic bath,  mercifully  divided  into  three  classes. 
[824] 


THE  NEW  DISPENSATION — II 

I  got  him  to  go  into  the  third  without  much 
difficulty.  When  he  came  out  he  was  in  the 
way  of  cleanliness,  and  before  he  had  time  to 
expostulate  I  ran  him  into  the  second.  Into 
the  first  he  would  not  go  till  I  had  bought  him 
a  cheap  ulster.  He  came  out  almost  clean. 
That  cost  me  three  shillings  altogether.  The 
ulster  was  half  a  sovereign,  and  some  other 
clothes  were  thirty  shillings.  Even  these 
things  could  not  hide  from  me  that  he  looked 
an  unusually  villainous  creature. 

At  the  chambers  the  trouble  began.  The 
people  in  charge  had  race  prejudices  very 
strongly,  and  I  had  to  point  out  that  he  was  a 
civilised  native  Christian  anxious  to  improve 
his  English — it  was  fluent  but  unchastened — 
before  they  would  give  him  some  sort  of  a  crib 
to  lie  down  in.  The  housemaids  called  him 
the  Camel.  I  introduced  him  as  "the  Tamil," 
but  they  knew  nothing  of  the  ethnological  sub- 
divisions of  India.  They  called  him  "that  there 
beastly  camel,"  and  I  saw  by  the  light  in  his 
eye  he  understood  only  too  well. 

Coming  up  the  staircase  he  confided  to  me 
[325] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

his  views  about  the  housemaids.  He  had  lived 
at  the  docks  too  long.  I  said  they  weren't.  He 
said  they  were. 

Then  I  showed  him  his  duties,  and  he  stood 
long  in  thought  before  the  wardrobe.  He  evi- 
dently knew  more  than  a  little  of  the  work,  but 
whenever  he  came  to  a  more  than  unusually 
dilapidated  garment,  he  said:  "No  good  for 
you,  J  take";  and  he  took.  Then  he  put  all 
the  buttons  on  in  the  smoking  of  a  pipe,  and 
asked  if  there  was  anything  else.  I  weakly 
said  "No."  He  said:  "Good-bye,"  and  faded 
out  of  the  house.  The  housekeeper  of  the 
chambers  said  he  would  never  return. 

But  he  did.  At  three  in  the  morning  home 
he  came,  and,  naturally,  possessing  no  latch- 
key, rang  the  bell.  A  policeman  interfered, 
taking  him  for  a  burglar,  and  I  was  roused  by 
the  racket.  I  explained  he  was  my  servant, 
and  the  policeman  said:  "He  do  swear  won- 
derful. 'Tain't  any  language.  I  know  most 
of  it,  but  some  I've  heard  at  Poplar."  Then 
I  dragged  the  Camel  upstairs.  He  was  quite 
sober,  and  said  he  had  been  waiting  at  the 
[  326] 


THE  NEW  DISPENSATION— II 

docks.  He  must  wait  at  the  docks  every  time 
a  British-India  steamer  came  in.  A  lascar  on 
the  Rewah  had  stabbed  him  in  the  side  three 
voyages  ago,  and  he  was  waiting  for  his  man. 
"Maybe  he  have  died,"  he  said;  "but  if  he  have 
not  died  I  catch  him  and  cut  his  liver  out." 
Then  he  curled  himself  up  on  the  mat,  and 
slept  as  noiselessly  as  a  child. 

Next  morning  he  inspected  the  humble 
breakfast  bloater,  which  did  not  meet  with  his 
approval,  for  he  instantly  cut  it  in  two  pieces, 
fried  it  with  butter,  dusted  it  with  pepper,  and 
miraculously  made  of  it  a  dish  fit  for  a  king. 
When  the  shock-headed  boy  came  to  take  away 
the  breakfast  things,  he  counted  every  piece  of 
crockery  into  his  quaking  hand  and  said:  "If 
you  break  one  dam  thing  I  cut  your  dam  liver 
out  and  fly  him  with  butter."  Consequently, 
the  housemaids  said  they  were  not  going  to 
clean  the  rooms  as  long  as  the  Camel  abode 
within.  The  Camel  put  his  head  out  of  the  door 
and  said  they  need  not.  He  cleaned  the  rooms 
with  his  own  hand  and  without  noise,  filled  my 
pipe,  made  the  bed,  filled  a  pipe  for  himself, 
[327  ] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

and  sat  down  on  the  hearth-rug  while  I  worked. 
When  thought  carried  him  away  to  the  lascar 
of  the  Rewahj  he  would  brandish  the  poker  or 
take  out  his  knife  and  whet  it  on  the  brickwork 
of  the  grate.  It  was  a  soothing  sound  to  work 
to.  At  one  o'clock  he  said  that  the  Chyebassa 
would  be  in,  and  he  must  go.  He  demanded 
no  money,  saw  that  my  tiffin  was  served,  and 
fled.  He  returned  at  six  o'clock  singing  a 
hymn.  A  lascar  on  the  Chyebassa  had  told 
him  that  the  Bewah  was  due  in  four  days,  and 
that  his  friend  was  not  dead,  but  ripe  for  the 
knife.  That  night  he  got  very  drunk  while  I 
was  out,  and  frightened  the  housemaids.  All 
the  chambers  were  in  an  uproar,  but  he  crawled 
out  of  the  skylight  on  the  roof,  and  sat  there 
till  I  came  home. 

In  the  dawn  he  was  very  penitent.  He  had 
misarranged  his  drink:  the  original  intention 
being  to  sleep  it  off  on  my  hearth-rug,  but  a 
housemaid  had  invited  a  friend  up  to  the  cham- 
bers to  look  at  him,  and  the  whispered  com- 
ments and  giggles  made  him  angry.  All  next 
day  he  was  restless  but  attentive.  He  urged 
[328] 


THE  NEW  DISPENSATION— II 

me  to  fly  to  foreign  shores,  and  take  him  with 
me.  When  other  inducements  failed,  he  re- 
iterated that  he  was  a  "native  ki-lis-ti-an,"  and 
whetted  his  knife  more  furiously  than  ever. 
"You  do  not  like  this  place.  I  do  not  like 
this  place.  Let  us  travel  dam  quick.  Let  us 
go  on  the  sea.  I  cook  blotters."  I  told  him 
this  was  impossible,  but  that  if  he  stayed  in 
my  service  we  might  later  go  abroad  and  enjoy 
ourselves. 

But  he  would  not  rest  and  sleep  on  the  rug 
and  tend  my  shirts.  On  the  morning  of  the 
Rewah's  arrival  he  went  away,  and  from  his 
absence  I  fancied  he  had  fallen  into  the  hands 
of  the  law.  But  at  midnight  he  came  back, 
weak  and  husky. 

"Have  got  him,"  said  he  simply,  and 
dragged  his  ulster  down  from  the  wall,  wrap- 
ping it  very  tightly  round  him.  "Now  I  go 
'way." 

He  went  into  the  bedroom,  and  began  count- 
ing over  the  tale  of  the  week's  wash,  the  boots, 
and  so  forth.   "All  right,"  he  called  into  the 
[329] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

other  room.  Then  came  in  to  say  good-bye, 
walking  slowly. 

"What's  your  name,  marshter?"  said  he.  I 
told  him.  He  bowed  and  descended  the  stair- 
case painfully.  I  had  not  paid  him  a  penny, 
and  since  he  did  not  ask  for  it,  counted  on  his 
returning  at  least  for  wages. 

It  was  not  till  next  morning  that  I  found 
big  dark  drops  on  most  of  my  clean  shirts,  and 
the  housemaid  complained  of  a  trail  of  blood 
all  down  the  staircase. 

"The  Camel"  had  received  payment  in  full 
from  other  hands  than  mine. 


[330] 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  STORIES* 


Wherefore  I  perceive  that  there  is  nothing  better  than 
that  a  man  should  rejoice  in  his  own  works;  for  that  is 
his  portion. 


another  man  to  pull,"  I  replied,  which  was  rude 
and,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  unnecessary. 

"Happy  thought — go  to  Jehannum!"  said 
a  voice  at  my  elbow.  I  turned  and  saw,  seated 
on  the  edge  of  my  bed,  a  large  and  luminous 
Devil.  "I'm  not  afraid,"  I  said.  "You're  an 
illusion  bred  by  too  much  tobacco  and  not 
enough  sleep.   If  I  look  at  you  steadily  for  a 


■Ecc.  in,  22. 


ENCH  with  a  long  hand,  lazy 
one,"  I  said  to  the  punkah  coolie. 
"But  I  am  tired,"  said  the  coolie. 
"Then  go  to  Jehannum  and  get 


♦From  "Week's  News."  Sept.  15,  1888. 

T3311 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


minute  you  will  disappear.  You  are  an  ignis 
fatuus." 

"Fatuous  yourself!"  answered  the  Devil 
blandly.  "Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  know 
me?"  He  shrivelled  up  to  the  size  of  a  blob 
of  sediment  on  the  end  of  a  pen,  and  I  recog- 
nised my  old  friend  the  Devil  of  Discontent, 
who  lived  in  the  bottom  of  the  inkpot,  but 
emerges  half  a  day  after  each  story  has  been 
printed  with  a  host  of  useless  suggestions  for 
its  betterment. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?"  I  said.  "You're  not  due 
till  next  week.   Get  back  to  your  inkpot." 

"Hush!"  said  the  Devil.   "I  have  an  idea." 

"Too  late,  as  usual.   I  know  your  ways." 

"No.  It's  a  perfectly  practicable  one.  Your 
swearing  at  the  coolie  suggested  it.  Did  you 
ever  hear  of  a  man  called  Dante — charmin' 
fellow,  friend  o'  mine?" 

"  'Dante  once  prepared  to  paint  a  picture,' 
I  quoted. 

"Yes.    I  inspired  that  notion — but  never 
mind.   Are  you  willing  to  play  Dante  to  my 
Virgil?  I  can't  guarantee  a  nine-circle  Inferno, 
[332] 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  STORIES 


any  more  than  you  can  turn  out  a  cantoed  epic, 
but  there's  absolutely  no  risk  and — it  will  run 
to  three  columns  at  least." 

"But  what  sort  of  Hell  do  you  own?"  I  said. 
"I  fancied  your  operations  were  mostly  above 
ground.  You  have  no  jurisdiction  over  the 
dead. 

"Sainted  Leopardi!"  rapped  the  Devil,  re- 
suming natural  size.  "Is  that  all  you  know? 
I'm  proprietor  of  one  of  the  largest  Hells  in 
existence — the  Limbo  of  Lost  Endeavor,  where 
the  souls  of  all  the  Characters  go." 

"Characters?   What  Characters?" 

"All  the  characters  that  are  drawn  in  books, 
painted  in  novels,  sketched  in  magazine  arti- 
cles, thumb-nailed  in  feuilletons  or  in  any  way 
created  by  anybodj^  and  everybody  who  has 
had  the  fortune  or  misfortune  to  put  his  or  her 
writings  into  print." 

"That  sounds  like  a  quotation  from  a  pros- 
pectus. What  do  you  herd  Characters  for? 
Aren't  there  enough  souls  in  the  Universe?" 

"Who  possess  souls  and  who  do  not?  For 
aught  you  can  prove,  man  may  be  soulless  and 
[333] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

the  creatures  he  writes  about  immortal.  Any- 
how, about  a  hundred  years  after  printing 
became  an  established  nuisance,  the  loose  Char- 
acters used  to  blow  about  interplanetary  space 
in  legions  which  interfered  with  traffic.  So 
they  were  collected,  and  their  charge  became 
mine  by  right.  Would  you  care  to  see  them? 
Your  own  tire  there." 

"That  decides  me.  But  is  it  hotter  than 
Northern  India?" 

"On  my  Devildom,  no.  Put  your  arms 
round  my  neck  and  sit  tight.  I'm  going  to 
dive!" 

He  plunged  from  the  bed  headfirst  into  the 
floor.  There  was  a  smell  of  j&il-durrie  and 
damp  earth;  and  then  fell  the  black  darkness 
of  night. 

****** 
We  stood  before  a  door  in  a  topless  wall, 
from  the  further  side  of  which  came  faintly 
the  roar  of  infernal  fires. 

"But  you  said  there  was  no  danger!"  I  cried 
in  an  extremity  of  terror. 

"No  more  there  is,"  said  the  Devil.  "That's 
[334] 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  STORIES 

only  the  Furnace  of  First  Edition.  Will  you 
go  on?  No  other  human  being  has  set  foot 
here  in  the  flesh.  Let  me  bring  the  door  to 
your  notice.  Pretty  design,  isn't  it?  A  joke 
of  the  Master's." 

I  shuddered,  for  the  door  was  nothing  more 
than  a  coffin,  the  backboard  knocked  out,  set 
on  end  in  the  thickness  of  the  wall.  As  I  hesi- 
tated, the  silence  of  space  was  cut  by  a  sharp, 
shrill  whistle,  like  that  of  a  live  shell,  which 
rapidly  grew  louder  and  louder.  "Get  away 
from  the  door,"  said  the  Devil  of  Discontent 
quickly.  "Here's  a  soul  coming  to  its  place." 
I  took  refuge  under  the  broad  vans  of  the 
Devil's  wings.  The  whistle  rose  to  an  ear- 
splitting  shriek  and  a  naked  soul  flashed  past 
me. 

"Always  the  same,"  said  the  Devil  quietly. 
"These  little  writers  are  so  anxious  to  reach 
their  reward.  H'm,  I  don't  think  he  likes 
his'n,  though."  A  yell  of  despair  reached  my 
ears  and  I  shuddered  afresh.  "Who  was  he?" 
I  asked.  "Hack-writer  for  a  pornographic 
firm  in  Belgium,  exporting  to  London,  you'll 
[335  ] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


understand  presently — and  now  we'll  go  in," 
said  the  Devil.  "I  must  apologise  for  that 
creature's  rudeness.  He  should  have  stopped 
at  the  distance-signal  for  line-clear.  You  can 
hear  the  souls  whistling  there  now." 

"Are  they  the  souls  of  men?"  I  whispered. 

"Yes — writer-men.  That's  why  they  are  so 
shrill  and  querulous.  Welcome  to  the  Limbo 
of  Lost  Endeavour!" 

They  passed  into  a  domed  hall,  more  vast 
than  visions  could  embrace,  crowded  to  its  limit 
by  men,  women  and  children.  Round  the  eye 
of  the  dome  ran,  a  flickering  fire,  that  terrible 
quotation  from  Job:  "Oh,  that  mine  enemy 
had  written  a  book!" 

"Neat,  isn't  it?"  said  the  Devil,  following 
my  glance.  "Another  joke  of  the  Master's. 
Man  of  USj  y'  know.  In  the  old  days  we  used 
to  put  the  Characters  into  a  disused  circle  of 
Dante's  Inferno,  but  they  grew  overcrowded. 
So  Balzac  and  Theophile  Gautier  were  com- 
missioned to  write  up  this  building.  It  took 
them  three  years  to  complete,  and  is  one  of 
the  finest  under  earth.  Don't  attempt  to  de- 
[336] 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  STORIES 

scribe  it  unless  you  are  quite  sure  you  are 
equal  to  Balzac  and  Gautier  in  collaboration. 
'Look  at  the  crowds  and  tell  me  what  you 
think  of  them." 

I  looked  long  and  earnestly,  and  saw  that 
many  of  the  multitude  were  cripples.  They 
walked  on  their  heels  or  their  toes,  or  with  a 
list  to  the  right  or  left.  A  few  of  them  pos- 
sessed odd  eyes  and  parti-coloured  hair;  more 
threw  themselves  into  absurd  and  impossible 
attitudes;  and  every  fourth  woman  seemed  to 
be  weeping. 

"Who  are  these?"  I  said. 

"Mainly  the  population  of  three-volume 
novels  that  never  reach  the  six-shilling  stage. 
See  that  beautiful  girl  with  one  grey  eye  and 
one  brown,  and  the  black  and  yellow  hair?  Let 
her  be  an  awful  warning  to  you  how  you  cor- 
rect your  proofs.  She  was  created  by  a  care- 
less writer  a  month  ago,  and  he  changed  all 
colours  in  the  second  volume.  So  she  came 
here  as  you  see  her.  There  will  be  trouble 
when  she  meets  her  author.  He  can't  alter 
her  now,  and  she  says  she'll  accept  no  apology." 
[337] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

"But  when  will  she  meet  her  author?" 

"Not  in  my  department.  Do  you  notice  a 
general  air  of  expectancy  among  all  the  Char- 
acters? They  are  waiting  for  their  authors. 
Look!  That  explains  the  system  better  than  I 
can." 

A  lovely  maiden,  at  whose  feet  I  would  wil- 
lingly have  fallen  and  worshipped,  detached 
herself  from  the  crowd  and  hastened  to  the 
door  through  which  I  had  just  come.  There 
was  a  prolonged  whistle  without,  a  soul  dashed 
through  the  coffin  and  fell  upon  her  neck.  The 
girl  with  the  parti-coloured  hair  eyed  the 
couple  enviously  as  they  departed  arm  in  arm 
to  the  other  side  of  the  hall. 

"That  man,"  said  the  Devil,  "wrote  one 
magazine  story,  of  twenty-four  pages,  ten 
years  ago  when  he  was  desperately  in  love  with 
a  flesh  and  blood  woman.  He  put  all  his 
heart  into  the  work,  and  created  the  girl  you 
have  just  seen.  The  flesh  and  blood  woman 
married  some  one  else  and  died — it's  a  way 
they  have — but  the  man  has  this  girl  for  his 
[338] 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  STORIES 


very  own,  and  she  will  everlastingly  grow 
sweeter." 

"Then  the  Characters  are  independent?" 

"Slightly!  Have  you  never  known  one  of 
your  Characters — even  yours — get  beyond  con- 
trol as  soon  as  they  are  made?" 

"That's  true.  Where  are  those  two  happy 
creatures  going?" 

"To  the  Levels.  You've  heard  of  authors 
finding  their  levels?  We  keep  all  the  Levels 
here.  As  each  writer  enters,  he  picks  up  his 
Characters,  or  they  pick  him  up,  as  the  case 
may  be,  and  to  the  Levels  he  goes." 

"I  should  like  to  see  " 

"So  you  shall,  when  you  come  through  that 
door  a  second  time — whistling.  I  can't  take 
you  there  now." 

"Do  you  keep  only  the  Characters  of  living 
scribblers  in  this  hall?" 

"We  should  be  crowded  out  if  we  didn't 
draft  them  off  somehow.  Step  this  way  and 
I'll  take  you  to  the  Master.  One  moment, 
though.  There's  John  Ridd  with  Lorna 
Doone,  and  there  are  Mr.  Maliphant  and  the 
[339] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


Bormalacks — clannish  folk,  those  Besant 
Characters — don't  let  the  twins  talk  to  you 
about  Literature  and  Art.  Come  along. 
What's  here?" 

The  white  face  of  Mr.  John  Oakhurst,  gam- 
bler, broke  through  the  press.  "I  wish  to  ex- 
plain," said  he  in  a  level  voice,  "that  had  I  been 
consulted  I  should  never  have  blown  out  my 
brains  with  the  Duchess  and  all  that  Poker 
Flat  lot.  I  wish  to  add  that  the  only  woman 
I  ever  loved  was  the  wife  of  Brown  of  Cala- 
veras." He  pressed  his  hand  behind  him  sug- 
gestively. "All  right,  Mr.  Oakhurst,"  I  said 
hastily;  "I  believe  you."  "Kin  you  set  it 
right?"  he  asked,  dropping  into  the  Doric  of 
the  Gulches.  I  caught  a  trigger's  cloth-muffled 
click.  "Just  heavens!"  I  groaned.  "Must  I 
be  shot  for  the  sake  of  another  man's  Char- 
acters?" Oakhurst  levelled  his  revolver  at  my 
head,  but  the  weapon  was  struck  up  by  the 
hand  of  Yuba  Bill.  "You  durned  fool!"  said 
the  stage-driver.  "Hevn't  I  told  you  no  one 
but  a  blamed  idiot  shoots  at  sight  now?  Let 
the  galoot  go.  You  kin  see  by  his  eyes  he's 
[340] 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  STORIES 


no  party  to  your  matrimonial  arrangements." 
Oakhurst  retired  with  an  irreproachable  bow, 
but  in  my  haste  to  escape  I  fell  over  Caliban, 
his  head  in  a  melon  and  his  tame  ore  under  his 
arm.    He  spat  like  a  wildcat. 

"Maimers  none,  customs  beastly,"  said  the 
Devil.  "We'll  take  the  Bishop  with  us.  They 
all  respect  the  Bishop."  And  the  great  Bishop 
Blougram  joined  us,  calm  and  smiling,  with 
the  news,  for  my  private  ear,  that  Mr.  Giga- 
dibs  despised  him  no  longer. 

We  were  arrested  by  a  knot  of  semi -nude 
Bacchantes  kissing  a  clergyman.  The  Bishop's 
eyes  twinkled,  and  I  turned  to  the  Devil  for 
explanation. 

"That's  Robert  Elsmere — what's  left  of 
him,"  said  the  Devil.  "Those  are  French 
feuilleton  women  and  scourings  of  the  Opera 
Comique.  He  has  been  lecturing  'em,  and  they 
don't  like  it."  "He  lectured  ?ne!"  said  the 
Bishop  with  a  bland  smile.  "He  has  been  a 
nuisance  ever  since  he  came  here.  By  the  Holy 
Law  of  Proportion,  he  had  the  audacity  to  talk 
to  the  Master!  Called  him  a  'pot-bellied  bar- 
[341] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

barian'I  That  is  why  he  is  walking  so  stif- 
fly now,"  said  the  Devil.  "Listen!  Marie 
Pigeonnier  is  swearing  deathless  love  to  him. 
On  my  word,  we  ought  to  segregate  the  French 
characters  entirely.  By  the  way,  your  regi- 
ment came  in  very  handy  for  Zola's  importa- 
tions." 

"My  regiment?"  I  said.  "How  do  you 
mean?" 

"You  wrote  something  about  the  Tyneside 
Tail-Twisters,  just  enough  to  give  the  outline 
of  the  regiment,  and  of  course  it  came  down 
here — one  thousand  and  eighty  strong.  I  told 
it  off  in  hollow  squares  to  pen  up  the  Rougon- 
Macquart  series.  There  they  are."  I  looked 
and  saw  the  Tyneside  Tail-Twisters  ringing  an 
inferno  of  struggling,  shouting,  blaspheming 
men  and  women  in  the  costumes  of  the  Second 
Empire.  Now  and  again  the  shadowy  ranks 
brought  down  their  butts  on  the  toes  of  the 
crowd  inside  the  square,  and  shrieks  of  pain 
followed.  "You  should  have  indicated  your 
men  more  clearly;  they  are  hardly  up  to  their 
work,"  said  the  Devil.  "If  the  Zola  tribe  in- 
[342] 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  STORIES 

crease,  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  use  up  your 
two  companies  of  the  Black  Tyrone  and  two 
of  the  Old  Regiment." 

"I  am  proud  "  I  began. 

"Go  slow,"  said  the  Devil.  "You  won't  be 
half  so  proud  in  a  little  while,  and  I  don't  think 
much  of  your  regiments,  anyway.  But  they 
are  good  enough  to  fight  the  French.  Can  you 
hear  Coupeau  raving  in  the  left  angle  of  the 
square?  He  used  to  run  about  the  hall  seeing 
pink  snakes,  till  the  children's  story-book 
Characters  protested.   Come  along!" 

Never  since  Caxton  pulled  his  first  proof 
and  made  for  the  world  a  new  and  most  terrible 
God  of  Labour  had  mortal  man  such  an  ex- 
perience as  mine  when  I  followed  the  Devil  of 
Discontent  through  the  shifting  crowds  below 
the  motto  of  the  Dome.  A  few — a  very  few — 
of  the  faces  were  of  old  friends,  but  there  were 
thousands  whom  I  did  not  recognise.  Men  in 
every  conceivable  attire  and  of  every  possible 
nationality,  deformed  by  intention,  or  the  im- 
potence of  creation  that  could  not  create — 
blind,  unclean,  heroic,  mad,  sinking  under  the 
[343] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

weight  of  remorse,  or  with  eyes  made  splendid 
by  the  light  of  love  and  fixed  endeavour ;  wom- 
en fashioned  in  ignorance  and  mourning  the 
errors  of  their  creator,  life  and  thought  at  vari- 
ance with  body  and  soul;  perfect  women  such 
as  walk  rarely  upon  this  earth,  and  horrors 
that  were  women  only  because  they  had  not 
sufficient  self-control  to  be  fiends;  little  chil- 
dren, fair  as  the  morning,  who  put  their  hands 
into  mine  and  made  most  innocent  confidences ; 
loathsome,  lank-haired  infant-saints,  curious  as 
to  the  welfare  of  my  soul,  and  delightfully  mis- 
chievous boys,  generalled  by  the  irrepressible 
Tom  Sawyer,  who  played  among  murderers, 
harlots,  professional  beauties,  nuns,  Italian 
bandits  and  politicians  of  state. 

The  ordered  peace  of  Arthur's  Court  was 
broken  up  by  the  incursions  of  Mr.  John  Wel- 
lington Wells,  and  Dagonet,  the  jester,  found 
that  his  antics  drew  no  attention  so  long  as 
the  "dealer  in  magic  and  spells,"  taking  Tris- 
tram's harp,  sang  patter-songs  to  the  Round 
Table;  while  a  Zulu  Impi,  headed  by  Allan 
Quatermain,  wheeled  and  shouted  in  sham 
[344] 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  STORIES 

fight  for  the  pleasure  of  Little  Lord  Fauntle- 
roy.  Every  century  and  every  type  was 
jumbled  in  the  confusion  of  one  colossal  fancy- 
ball  where  all  the  characters  were  living  their 
parts. 

"Aye,  look  long,"  said  the  Devil.  "You  will 
never  be  able  to  describe  it,  and  the  next  time 
you  come  you  won't  have  the  chance.  Look 
long,  and  look  at" — Good's  passing  with  a 
maiden  of  the  Zu-Vendi  must  have  suggested 
the  idea — "look  at  their  legs."  I  looked,  and 
for  the  second  time  noticed  the  lameness  that 
seemed  to  be  almost  universal  in  the  Limbo  of 
Lost  Endeavour.  Brave  men  and  stalwart 
to  all  appearance  had  one  leg  shorter  than  the 
other;  some  paced  a  few  inches  above  the  floor, 
never  touching  it,  and  others  found  the  great- 
est difficulty  in  preserving  their  feet  at  all. 
The  stiffness  and  laboured  gait  of  these  thou- 
sands was  pitiful  to  witness.  I  was  sorry  for 
them.  I  told  the  Devil  as  much. 

"H'm,"  said  he  reflectively,  "that's  the 
world's  work.  Rather  cockeye,  ain't  it?  They 
do  everything  but  stand  on  their  feet.  You 
[345] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


could  improve  them,  I  suppose?"  There  was 
an  unpleasant  sneer  in  his  tone,  and  I  has- 
tened to  change  the  subject. 

"I'm  tired  of  walking,"  I  said.  "I  want  to 
see  some  of  my  own  Characters,  and  go  on  to 
the  Master,  whoever  he  may  be,  afterwards." 

"Reflect,"  said  the  Devil.  "Are  you  certain 
— do  you  know  how  many  they  be?" 

"No — but  I  want  to  see  them.  That's  what 
I  came  for." 

"Very  well.  Don't  abuse  me  if  you  don't 
like  the  view.  There  are  one-and-fifty  of  your 
make  up  to  date,  and — it's  rather  an  appalling 
thing  to  be  confronted  with  fifty-one  children. 
However,  here's  a  special  favourite  of  yours. 
Go  and  shake  hands  with  her!" 

A  limp- jointed,  staring-eyed  doll  was  hirp- 
ling  towards  me  with  a  strained  smile  of  recog- 
nition. I  felt  that  I  knew  her  only  too  well — 
if  indeed  she  were  she.  "Keep  her  off,  Devil!" 
I  cried,  stepping  back.  "I  never  made  thatf 
"  'She  began  to  weep  and  she  began  to  cry, 
Lord  ha'  mercy  on  me,  this  is  none  of  I!' 
You're  very  rude  to — Mrs.  Hauksbee,  and  she 
[  346  ] 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  STORIES 


wants  to  speak  to  you,"  said  the  Devil.  My 
face  must  have  betrayed  my  dismay,  for  the 
Devil  went  on  soothingly:  "That's  as  she  i8j 
remember.  I  knciv  you  wouldn't  like  it.  Now 
what  will  you  give  if  I  make  her  as  she  ought 
to  be?  No,  I  don't  want  your  soul,  thanks. 
I  have  it  already,  and  many  others  of  better 
quality.  Will  you,  when  you  write  your  story, 
own  that  I  am  the  best  and  greatest  of  all  the 
Devils?"  The  doll  was  creeping  nearer. 
"Yes,"  I  said  hurriedly.  "Anything  you  like. 
Only  I  can't  stand  her  in  that  state." 

"You'll  have  to  when  you  come  next  again. 
Look!  No  connection  with  Jekyll  and  Hyde!" 
The  Devil  pointed  a  lean  and  inky  finger  to- 
wards the  doll,  and  lo!  radiant,  bewitching, 
with  a  smile  of  dainty  malice,  her  high  heels 
clicking  on  the  floor  like  castanets,  advanced 
Mrs.  Hauksbee  as  I  had  imagined  her  in  the 
beginning. 

"Ah!"  she  said.    "You  are  here  so  soon? 
Not  dead  yet?   That  will  come.   Meantime,  a 
thousand  congratulations.   And  now,  what  do 
you  think  of  me?"   She  put  her  hands  on  her 
[347] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


hips,  revealed  a  glimpse  of  the  smallest  foot 
in  Simla  and  hummed:  "  'Just  look  at  that — 
just  look  at  this!  And  then  you'll  see  I'm  not 
amiss.'  " 

"She'll  use  exactly  the  same  words  when  you 
meet  her  next  time,"  said  the  Devil  warningly. 
"You  dowered  her  with  any  amount  of  vanity, 

if  you  left  out          Excuse  me  a  minute!  I'll 

fetch  up  the  rest  of  your  menagerie."  But  I 
was  looking  at  Mrs.  Hauksbee. 

"Well?"  she  said.  "Am  I  what  you  ex- 
pected?" I  forgot  the  Devil  and  all  his  works, 
forgot  that  this  was  not  the  woman  I  had 
made,  and  could  only  murmur  rapturously: 
"By  Jove!  You  are  a  beauty."  Then,  in- 
cautiously: "And  you  stand  on  your  feet." 
"Good  heavens!"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee. 
"Would  you,  at  my  time  of  life,  have  me  stand 
on  my  head?"  She  folded  her  arms  and 
looked  me  up  and  down.  I  was  grinning  im- 
becilely— the  woman  was  so  alive.  "Talk,"  I 
said  absently;  "I  want  to  hear  you  talk."  "I 
am  not  used  to  being  spoken  to  like  a  coolie," 
she  replied.  "Never  mind,"  I  said,  "that  may 
[348] 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  STORIES 


be  for  outsiders,  but  I  made  you  and  I've  a 
right  " 

"You  have  a  right?  You  made  me?  My 
dear  sir,  if  I  didn't  know  that  we  should  bore 
each  other  so  inextinguishably  hereafter  I 
should  read  you  an  hour's  lecture  this  instant. 
You  made  me!  I  suppose  you  will  have  the 
audacity  to  pretend  that  you  understand  me— 
that  you  ever  understood  me.  Oh,  man,  man — 
foolish  man!   If  you  only  knew!" 

"Is  that  the  person  who  thinks  he  under- 
stands us,  Loo?"  drawled  a  voice  at  her  elbow. 
The  Devil  had  returned  with  a  cloud  of  wit- 
nesses, and  it  was  Mrs.  Mallowe  who  was 
speaking. 

"I've  touched  'em  all  up,"  said  the  Devil  in 
an  aside.  "You  couldn't  stand  'em  raw.  But 
don't  run  away  with  the  notion  that  they  are 
your  work.  I  show  you  what  they  ought  to 
be.  You  must  find  out  for  yourself  how  to 
make  'em  so." 

"Am  I  allowed  to  remodel  the  batch — up 
above?"  I  asked  anxiously. 

"Litera  scripta  manet.  That's  in  the  Delec- 
[349] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

tus  and  Eternity."  He  turned  round  to  the 
semi-circle  of  Characters:  "Ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen, who  are  all  a  great  deal  better  than  you 
should  be  by  virtue  of  my  power,  let  me  in- 
troduce you  to  your  maker.  If  you  have  any- 
thing to  say  to  him,  you  can  say  it." 

"What  insolence!"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee  be- 
tween her  teeth.  "This  isn't  a  Peterhoff  draw- 
ing-room. I  haven't  the  slightest  intention  of 
being  leveed  by  this  person.  Polly,  come  here 
and  we'll  watch  the  animals  go  by."  She  and 
Mrs.  Mallowe  stood  at  my  side.  I  turned 
crimson  with  shame,  for  it  is  an  awful  thing  to 
see  one's  Characters  in  the  solid. 

"Wal,"  said  Gilead  P.  Beck  as  he  passed, 
"I  would  not  be  you  at  this  pre-c\se  moment  of 
time,  not  for  all  the  ile  in  the  univarsal  airth. 
No,  sirr!  I  thought  my  dinner-party  was  soul- 
shatterin',  but  it's  mush — mush  and  milk — to 
your  circus.   Let  the  good  work  go  on!" 

I  turned  to  the  company  and  saw  that  they 
were  men  and  women,  standing  upon  their  feet 
as  folks  should  stand.  Again  I  forgot  the 
Devil,  who  stood  apart  and  sneered.  From  the 
[350] 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  STORIES 

distant  door  of  entry  I  could  hear  the  whistle 
of  arriving  souls,  from  the  semi-darkness  at 
the  end  of  the  hall  came  the  thunderous  roar  of 
the  Furnace  of  First  Edition,  and  everywhere 
the  restless  crowds  of  Characters  muttered  and 
rustled  like  windblown  autumn  leaves.  But  I 
looked  upon  my  own  people  and  was  perfectly 
content  as  man  could  be. 

"I  have  seen  you  study  a  new  dress  with 
just  such  an  expression  of  idiotic  beatitude," 
whispered  Mrs.  Mallowe  to  Mrs.  Hauksbee. 
"Hush!"  said  the  latter.  "He  thinks  he  un- 
derstands." Then  to  me:  "Please  trot  them 
out.  Eternity  is  long  enough  in  all  conscience, 
but  that  is  no  reason  for  wasting  it.  Pro-ceed, 
or  shall  I  call  them  up?  Mrs.  Vansuythen, 
Mr.  Boult,  Mrs.  Boult,  Captain  Kurrel  and 
the  Major!"  The  European  population  in 
Kashima  in  the  Dosehri  hills,  the  actors  in  the 
Wayside  Comedy,  moved  towards  me;  and  I 
saw  with  delight  that  they  were  human.  "So 
you  wrote  about  us?"  said  Mrs.  Boult.  "About 
my  confession  to  my  husband  and  my  hatred 
of  that  Vansuythen  woman?  Did  you  think 
[351] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


that  you  understood  ?  Are  all  men  such  fools  ?" 
"That  woman  is  bad  form,"  said  Mrs.  Hauks- 
bee,  "but  she  speaks  the  truth.  I  wonder  what 
these  soldiers  have  to  say."  Gunner  Barnabas 
and  Private  Shacklock  stopped,  saluted,  and 
hoped  I  would  take  no  offence  if  they  gave  it 
as  their  opinion  that  I  had  not  "got  them 
down  quite  right."  I  gasped. 

A  spurred  Hussar  succeeded,  his  wife  on 
his  arm.  It  was  Captain  Gadsby  and  Minnie, 
and  close  behind  them  swaggered  Jack  Maf- 
flin,  the  Brigadier-General  in  his  arms.  "Had 
the  cheek  to  try  to  describe  our  life,  had  you?" 
said  Gadsby  carelessly.  "Ha-hmm!  S'pose 
he  understood,  Minnie?"  Mrs.  Gadsby  raised 
her  face  to  her  husband  and  murmured:  "I'm 
sure  he  didn't,  Pip,"  while  Poor  Dear  Mamma, 
still  in  her  riding-habit,  hissed:  "I'm  sure  he 
didn't  understand  me"  And  these  also  went 
their  way. 

One  after  another  they  filed  by — Trewin- 
nard,  the  pet  of  his  Department;  Otis  Yeere, 
lean  and  lanthorn- jawed;  Crook  O'Neil  and 
Bobby  Wick  arm  in  arm;  Janki  Meah,  the 
[352] 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  STORIES 


blind  miner  in  the  Jimahari  coal  fields;  Afzul 
Khan,  the  policeman;  the  murderous  Pathan 
horse-dealer,  Durga  Dass;  the  bunnia,  Boh 
Da  Thone;  the  dacoit,  Dana  Da,  weaver  of 
false  magic;  the  Leander  of  the  Barhwi  ford; 
Peg  Barney,  drunk  as  a  coot;  Mrs.  Delville, 
the  dowd;  Dinah  Shadd,  large,  red-cheeked 
and  resolute;  Simmons,  Slane  and  Losson; 
Georgie  Porgie  and  his  Burmese  helpmate;  a 
shadow  in  a  high  collar,  who  was  all  that  I  had 
ever  indicated  of  the  Hawley  Boy — the  name- 
less men  and  women  who  had  trod  the  Hill  of 
Illusion  and  lived  in  the  Tents  of  Kedar,  and 
last,  His  Majesty  the  King. 

Each  one  in  passing  told  me  the  same  tale, 
and  the  burden  thereof  was:  "You  did  not 
understand."  My  heart  turned  sick  within  me. 
"Where's  Wee  Willie  Winkie?"  I  shouted. 
"Little  children  don't  lie." 

A  clatter  of  pony's  feet  followed,  and  the 
child  appeared,  habited  as  on  the  day  he  rode 
into  Afghan  territory  to  warn  Coppy's  love 
against  the  "bad  men."  "I've  been  playing," 
he  sobbed,  "playing  on  ve  Levels  wiv  Jacka- 
[353] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

napes  and  Lollo,  an'  he  says  I'm  only  just 
borrowed.  I'm  isn't  borrowed.  I'm  Willie 
Wi-inkie!  Vere's  Coppy?" 

"  'Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and  suck- 
lings/ "  whispered  the  Devil,  who  had  drawn 
nearer.  "You  know  the  rest  of  the  proverb. 
Don't  look  as  if  you  were  going  to  be  shot  in 
the  morning!  Here  are  the  last  of  your  gang." 

I  turned  despairingly  to  the  Three  Muske- 
teers, dearest  of  all  my  children  to  me — to 
Privates  Mulvaney,  Ortheris  and  Learoyd. 
Surely  the  Three  would  not  turn  against  me 
as  the  others  had  done!  I  shook  hands  with 
Mulvaney.  "Terence,  how  goes?  Are  you 
going  to  make  fun  of  me,  too?"  "  'Tis  not  for 
me  to  make  fun  av  you,  sorr,"  said  the  Irish- 
man, "knowin'  as  I  du  know,  fwat  good  friends 
we've  been  for  the  matter  av  three  years." 

"Fower,"  said  Ortheris,  "  'twas  in  the  Helan- 
thami  barricks,  H  block,  we  was  become  ac- 
quaint, an'  'ere's  thankin'  you  kindly  for  all 
the  beer  we've  drunk  twix'  that  and  now." 

"Four  ut  is,  then,"  said  Mulvaney.  "He  an' 
[354] 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  STORIES 


Dinah  Shadd  are  your  friends,  but  "  He 

stood  uneasily. 

"But  what?"  I  said. 

' 'Savin'  your  presence,  sorr,  an'  it's  more 
than  onwillin'  I  am  to  be  hurtin'  you;  you  did 
not  ondersthand.  On  my  sowl  an'  honour, 
sorr,  you  did  not  ondersthand.  Come  along, 
you  two." 

But  Ortheris  stayed  for  a  moment  to  whis- 
per: "It's  Gawd's  own  trewth,  but  there's 
this  'ere  to  think.  'Tain't  the  bloomin'  belt 
that's  wrong,  as  Peg  Barney  sez,  when  he's 
up  for  bein'  dirty  on  p'rade.  'Tain't  the  bloom- 
in'  belt,  sir;  it's  the  bloomin'  pipeclay."  Ere 
I  could  seek  an  explanation  he  had  joined  his 
companions. 

"For  a  private  soldier,  a  singularly  shrewd 
man,"  said  Mrs.  Hauksbee,  and  she  repeated 
Ortheris's  words.  The  last  drop  filled  my 
cup,  and  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  I  bade  her 
be  quiet  in  a  wholly  unjustifiable  tone.  I  was 
rewarded  by  what  would  have  been  a  notable 
lecture  on  propriety,  had  I  not  said  to  the 
Devil:  "Change  that  woman  to  a  d — d  doll 
[355] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


again!  Change  'em  all  back  as  they  were — 
as  they  are.   I'm  sick  of  them." 

"Poor  wretch!"  said  the  Devil  of  Discon- 
tent very  quietly.    "They  are  changed." 

The  reproof  died  on  Mrs.  Hauksbee's  lips, 
and  she  moved  away  marionette-fashion,  Mrs. 
Mallowe  trailing  after  her.  I  hastened  after 
the  remainder  of  the  Characters,  and  they  were 
changed  indeed — even  as  the  Devil  had  said, 
who  kept  at  my  side. 

They  limped  and  stuttered  and  staggered 
and  mouthed  and  staggered  round  me,  till  I 
could  endure  no  more. 

"So  I  am  the  master  of  this  idiotic  puppet- 
show,  am  I?"  I  said  bitterly,  watching  Mul- 
vaney  trying  to  come  to  attention  by  spasms. 

"In  saecula  saeculorum"  said  the  Devil, 
bowing  his  head;  "and  you  needn't  kick,  my 
dear  fellow,  because  they  will  concern  no  one 
but  yourself  by  the  time  you  whistle  up  to  the 
door.  Stop  reviling  me  and  uncover.  Here's 
the  Master!" 

Uncover!    I  would  have  dropped  on  my 
knees,  had  not  the  Devil  prevented  me,  at  sight 
[356] 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  STORIES 

of  the  portly  form  of  Maitre  Francois  Rabe- 
lais, some  time  Cure  of  Meudon.  He  wore  a 
smoke-stained  apron  of  the  colours  of  Gargan- 
tua.  I  made  a  sign  which  was  duly  returned. 
"An  Entered  Apprentice  in  difficulties  with 
his  rough  ashlar,  Worshipful  Sir,"  explained 
the  Devil.   I  was  too  angry  to  speak. 

Said  the  Master,  rubbing  his  chin:  "Are 
those  things  yours?"  "Even  so,  Worshipful 
Sir,"  I  muttered,  praying  inwardly  that  the 
Characters  would  at  least  keep  quiet  while  the 
Master  was  near.  He  touched  one  or  two 
thoughtfully,  put  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder 
and  started:  "By  the  Great  Bells  of  Notre 
Dame,  you  are  in  the  flesh — the  warm  flesh ! — 
the  flesh  I  quitted  so  long — ah,  so  long!  And 
you  fret  and  behave  unseemly  because  of  these 
shadows!  Listen  now!  I,  even  I,  would  give 
my  Three,  Panurge,  Gargantua  and  Panta- 
gruel,  for  one  little  hour  of  the  life  that  is  in 
you.   And  I  am  the  Master!" 

But  the  words  gave  me  no  comfort.  I  could 
hear  Mrs.  Mallowe's  joints  cracking — or  it 
might  have  been  merely  her  stays. 

[  357  ] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 

"Worshipful  Sir,  he  will  not  believe  that," 
said  the  Devil.  "Who  live  by  shadows  lust 
for  shadows.  Tell  him  something  more  to 
his  need." 

The  Master  grunted  contemptuously :  "And 
he  is  flesh  and  blood!  Know  this,  then.  The 
First  Law  is  to  make  them  stand  upon  their 
feet,  and  the  Second  is  to  make  them  stand 
upon  their  feet,  and  the  Third  is  to  make  them 
stand  upon  their  feet.  But,  for  all  that,  Trajan 
is  a  fisher  of  frogs."  He  passed  on,  and  I 
could  hear  him  say  to  himself:  "One  hour — 
one  minute — of  life  in  the  flesh,  and  I  would 
sell  the  Great  Perhaps  thrice  over!" 

"Well,"  said  the  Devil,  "you've  made  the 
Master  angry,  seen  about  all  there  is  to  be 
seen,  except  the  Furnace  of  First  Edition,  and, 
as  the  Master  is  in  charge  of  that,  I  should 
avoid  it.  Now  you'd  better  go.  You  know 
what  you  ought  to  do?" 

"I  don't  need  all  Hell  " 

"Pardon  me.  Better  men  than  you  have 
called  this  Paradise." 

"All  Hell,  I  said,  and  the  Master  to  tell  me 
[358] 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  STORIES 

what  I  knew  before.  What  I  want  to  know  is 
how?"  "Go  and  find  out,"  said  the  Devil.  We 
turned  to  the  door,  and  I  was  aware  that  my 
Characters  had  grouped  themselves  at  the  exit. 
"They  are  going  to  give  you  an  ovation.  Think 
o'  that,  now!"  said  the  Devil.  I  shuddered  and 
dropped  my  eyes,  while  one-and-fifty  voices 
broke  into  a  wailing  song,  whereof  the  words, 
so  far  as  I  recollect,  ran: 

But  we  brought  forth  and  reared  in  hours 

Of  change,  alarm,  surprise. 
What  shelter  to  grow  ripe  is  ours — 

What  leisure  to  grow  wise? 

I  ran  the  gauntlet,  narrowly  missed  collision 
with  an  impetuous  soul  (I  hoped  he  liked  his 
Characters  when  he  met  them) ,  and  flung  free 
into  the  night,  where  I  should  have  knocked 
my  head  against  the  stars.  But  the  Devil 
caught  me. 

****** 

The  brain-fever  bird  was  fluting  across  the 
grey,  dewy  lawn,  and  the  punkah  had  stopped 
[359] 


ABAFT  THE  FUNNEL 


again.  "Go  to  Jehannum  and  get  another  man 
to  pull,"  I  said  drowsily.  "Exactly,"  said  a 
voice  from  the  inkpot. 

Now  the  proof  that  this  story  is  absolutely 
true  lies  in  the  fact  that  there  will  be  no  other 
to  follow  it. 


THE  END 


[360] 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RENEWALS  ONLY— TEL.  NO.  642-3405 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 
on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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